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MY LIFE AND 
DANCING 







Glass __ily_LlMl 

Book ^^ 

Copyright W. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 




PAUL R. REYNOLDS 
1908 
. New York 



4-*' 

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Copyright, 1908, 

BY 

Paul R. Reynolds 



DEDICATION. 

Darling Mothi;r: — 

At the last moment I am told that my book requires a Dedica- 
tion. Of course it does. 
This is it, 

Your devoted, 

Maud. 
London, 

September, 1908. 



PREFACE. 

When first it was suggested to me that I should write this 
small book it seemed to me to savour of imposing a little on 
the wonderful kindness with which my work and myself have 
been received. But when the suggestion was backed up by the 
advice, almost the demands, of friends in whose judgment I have 
confidence, my scruples vanished, and I decided Uberare animam 
meam to liberate my mind, as the Classic author puts it. 

If it should give pleasure to or interest the friends who have 
appreciated my work, or even bring those who have misunder- 
stood it to a better understanding, and especially if it prove 
helpful to any young girl whose ambition it is to take up an 
artistic career, I shall feel most amply rewarded. I shall feel 
that I was justified in braving criticism on the score of the 
premature publication of even so brief an outline as this of my 
life's work. 

M. A. 



MY LIFE AND DANCING. 



CHAPTER I. 
INTRODUCTORY. 

"How came it about that you adopted the classic methods 
of dance?" 

"How did you set about acquiring the art of antique danc- 
ing? 

"What gave you the idea of reviving the style of the an- 
cients in your dances?" 

These are the earliest questions of the curious critic. 

"Her manner of interpreting the emotional phases of music 
is a revelation." 

"This manner of dancing is a remarkable novelty." 

"She has introduced wonderful innovations in the art of 
dancing!" 

These are the pronouncements of the kindly and courteous 
critic. 

They are wrong — wrong — wrong. 

How I dance, and why, and what is my intention in my 
dance no one can say. I, least of all, for as I think and 
breathe and live, so I dance, and as for method, a searching 
cry from one of the wood-wind instruments in the orchestra 
- — a deeper sigh from the violincellos, a sudden impulsive 
throb from the great bass, or a warning muffled note from 
the horns, and what I have to express as I dance above them 
on the stage, changes, as a chance word said in a new tone 
in a conversation alters the whole tenour of the talk. Many 
who have watched me time after time have asked me why I 
can never dance to the same measure twice in exactly the 
same manner — I cannot answer, I only know that as the 
music calls, so every muscular fibre that responds to the beat- 
ing of my heart, responds to that particular voice, and the 
tone becomes movement. 

A novelty — an innovation? No, indeed! 



8 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

When first I came to London, one of my earliest friends, 
a critic who was perhaps more poet than critic, and perhaps 
more seer than either, said to me: **You danced, I think, in 
Syracusan groves, and on the slopes of Mount Etna, for the 
pleasure of Dorian and Ionian immigrants, when Sicily was 
a peaceful colony of ancient Greece. You danced whilst 
Theocritus read his idylls in the Mediterranean twilights, 
and then you went to sleep — and have wakened again just 
now. But you have not forgotten how you danced to the 
wailing and the laughter of Sicilian flutes and to the com- 
mand of Sicilian tabors." 

I wonder! 

I think I can see the boats from Argolis seven hundred 
years before Christ landing their companies upon the Trina- 
crian sands. I can skip five hundred years, and stand in the 
theatre at Taormina, as it was then, listening to the tired 
voice of Theocritus, himself a settler upon those whispering 
shores, reciting the Idyll, compelling my limbs to sway to the 
music of his thought, whilst the chorus took up the burden 
of his tale. And then the Carthaginian wars, the struggle 
for our Island, the purple splendours and brutalities of the 
Roman Triumph. The Sicily of Theocritus was crushed, its 
groves were hushed and dead, and I — I think they laid me in 
a little niche beside a stream under the hedges of cactus and 
the geraniums stained by the sun-rise — and I waited — waited! 

Syracuse in Sicily, B. C.210, London in England, A.D. 1908. 

What a wild fancy! and yet — I do sometimes think that I 
was one with those ancient dancers, whose duty in life was 
to express in motion the hopes, fears, passions, regrets, which 
rose in men's and women's hearts, and found expression in 
movement when the world was younger, and simpler, and 
more accustomed to what Carlyle has called *'all sorts of sud- 
den sincerities." 

How much I remember, how much I have read — and for- 
gotten — how much I have dreamed of those earliest dancers. 
I hardly know. But let me set it down with the help of a 
few old writers who noted these things at the time, by way 
of introduction to my egotistical little book. 



The origin of dancing is panoplied with the dim magni- 
ficence of Myth. "We are not to believe," says Lucian in a 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 9 

well known dialogue, ''that dancing is of modern invention, 
born recently, or even that our ancestors saw its beginning. 
Those who have spoken with truth of the origin of this art 
affirm that it takes its birth from the time of the creation of 
all things, and that it is as old as Love, the most ancient of 
the gods." Cybele herself, daughter of the Earth and Sky, 
wife of Saturn, and mother of the gods, taught the art of 
dancing to the Corybantes on Mount Ida and to the Couretes 
in Crete, and among the servants of the Pantheon her priests 
were called Ballatores — the Dancers — and the dance of the 
Curetes was said to be that of Daedalus, engraved, as Homer 
tells us in the Iliad, upon the shields of Achilles. 

When the cloud-curtains of mythology are raised and his- 
toric times begin, we hear first of all of the Hieratic dances 
of Egypt, and find representations of them upon Egyptian 
monuments from 2500 to 1200 B.C. These dances interpreted 
the Music of the Spheres and the Harmonic progression of 
the Stars. We have representations of the dances in honour 
of Apis the Bull, the Diodorus Siculus (that tender master 
of Chronicles) tells us that Osiris was served by nine mai- 
dens skilled in all arts that relate to musical expression, who 
came to be called by the Greeks the "Nine Muses." You 
have in your midst, on the tablets and vases from Thebes in 
the British Museum, pictures of the dances that accompanied 
their funerals and festivals, and modern travellers in Egypt 
may see in the dances of the Gazawis — the dance of "the 
Bee," and of "the Bottle" — the survival of the very modes 
depicted upon those ancient decorations. 

Born in Egypt, the Dance became nurtured in the cradle of 
the Arts — Greece — and I love to see in imagination the Nine 
Muses, led by Terpischore, as they were seen by Hesiod 
treading, in their beautiful measures, the violets of Hippo- 
crene. And in other moods my mind conjures up the Bac- 
chantes encircling Silenus with their riot of spontaneous 
movement. We have it from Aristotle that, in dancing, all 
the passions of man found illustration three hundred years 
before the Augustan era, and no Athenian festivity was shorn 
of this art which Simonides aptly described as ' 'silent 
poetry." 

If proof were wanting of the importance that the Greeks 
attached to dancing, it may be found throughout the page? 



10 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

of Plato's "Republic," where it is prescribed as one of the 
principal branches of education. We remember the dances 
that Homer describes at the banquets in the Odyssey — if you 
would have them brought more vividly before you, spend an 
hour among the exquisite figures from Tanagra and Myrina, 
in the British Museum, and in the Galleries of the Louvre. 

A learned and enthusiastic student and professor of the 
art, Mons. Desrats, in his '^Dictionnaire de la Danse" (Paris. 
1896), has given us a wonderful study of these early Greek 
dances. It is not for me to attempt an elaborate descrip- 
tion of them in this place, but some of the principal dances 
may be evoked by the most cursory description. The Emme- 
leia, which are referred to by Plato, and which were in the 
nature of sacred and tragic invocations to the gods. The 
Hyporchema, religious dances, accompanied by a singing 
chorus, which were executed in honour originally of Apollo, 
and later of Dionysos and Athene. The exquisite Gymno- 
pa^dia, simulating an attack and defence, danced by naked 
boys crowned with chaplets of palm, and the Endj^matia, 
which were more secular dances, characterised by brisker 
nction, and executed by performers clad in the richest dra- 
peries. 

From these four all the dances of antiquity took their deri- 
vation, and among the,m what more idyllic than that known 
as Caryatis, the dance sacred to Diana, danced by noble Spar- 
tan maidens in the woods near Caryse. It was the Dance of 
Innocence, danced naked around the altars of the goddess, 
the maidens carrying upon their heads baskets containing 
the materials and implements proper to the sacrifice, and 
their chaste rites have been immortalised in our modern 
architecture by the pillars that are known to us as Caryatides. 

The Virgin Goddess claimed, too, the dance known as 
Cnossia, a dance executed by girls in chaplets of flowers, 
and youths girt with golden swords and bearing golden 
shields; it was a war-like measure representing the labyrinth 
of the Minotaur at Cnossus. To her also was sacred the 
Purple Dance, so called from the colour of the tunics in 
which it was executed. Sparta, again, was the home of an- 
other dance sr'cred to Diana, the Hormos, a kind of faran- 
dole instituted by Lycurgus to inculcate in the youths and 
maidens who danced it without draperies, the fearless mod- 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 11 

esty which was the boast of the Spartan national character. 
Even in such early days there were those in whom niidit}' 
in woman awoke base thoughts, to whom Lycurgus replied 
(Plutarch being his historiographer), ''I wish them to per- 
form the same exercises as men, that they may equal men 
in strength, health, virtue and generosity of soul, ar-d that 
they may learn to despise the opinion of the vulgar." 

The youth of Greece were, as we have seen, educated to 
the dance with a view to the exercise and training of their 
muscles. Chief among their exercises were the Pyrrhic and 
the Memphitic dances, which were military in their character, 
and of which we find countless representations upon Greek 
and Etruscan vases and mural paintings. The Pyrrhic dance, 
which has been described in turn by Xenophon and Apuleius, 
was danced principally at the festival of the Panathense in 
honour of Minerva. Later, we learn, the reed and the thyr- 
sus took the place of the weapons of war, and the dance 
degenerated into a Bacchic revel. The Memphitic dance was 
equally warlike in its origin, but was danced to the music of 
flutes. It was at this period in the history of dancing that 
its evolutions took on the earliest elements of pantomime, 
the invention of which is attributed by Cassiodorus to one 
Philistion, but it must not be imagined that pantomime was 
tinged at this time with the buffoneries which were later 
its leading characteristic, and which led to its ultimate degra- 
dation. The best pantomimists were called Ethologues, 
meaning "painters of manners," and their performances were 
known as Hypotheses, meaning "moralities." 

All these early writers are, to some extent, vague and con- 
tradictory in their accounts, but I have chosen for record onl}^ 
the clearest descriptions that have come down to us. 

On the Greek stage, the Hyporchematic dances reached 
their highest developments of music, dance and statuesque 
poses, and they were directed by a leader who punctuated the 
measures with the click of oyster-shells, a practice that finds 
its parallel in the use of the modern castanets. 

It is not surprising that with the intrusion of pantomime 
and of the comic element the dances degenerated, and we 
read of the Cordax (named after Cordax, the satyr), which 
was an indecent buffoonery, for the dancing of which Theo- 
phrastus reproaches a man who danced it when sober. 



12 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

The dance known as Sikinnis was of even baser sort, and 
the Kolia was little other than the twitching of the body 
muscles that has its modern equivalent in the Danse du 
Ventre of the latter day Almees and Gazawis. The names 
of a vast number of these mimetic dances have been handed 
down to us by historians of classic m.anners and customs, 
and Mons. Vuillier, in his "Histoire de la Danse," gives a 
list of them, the titles of which sufificiently indicate their 
nature. 

But contemporary and co-existent with these were many 
very beautiful dances peculiar to women, representations of 
which have charmed us all as we see them depicted in the 
mural paintings of Pompeii and Herculaneum. Such were 
the Hygra, the Kallabis, and the Oklasma, exquisite and 
graceful measures danced to the music of single and double 
flutes. Would that I could go back in dreams to see a 
Greek maiden dancing the flower dance that was known as 
Anthema! 

But the Greeks were not the only pupils of the ancient 
Egyptian dancers. The Hebrews during the time of the 
Egyptian captivity, without doubt, learnt much of this art 
from their task-masters, and one might easily quote a vast 
number of passages from the Old Testament having refer- 
ence to the dances of the Israelites. "Praise Him with tim- 
brel and with dance'' commands the Psalmist, and the dance 
of King David before the Ark requires but passing mention. 
The pitiful episode of Tephtha's daughter springs to one's 
mind, and we learn that the daughters of Shiloh were danc- 
ing when the sons of Benjamin descended upon them, as the 
Romans upon the Sabine women. There were dances in 
honour of Judith when she returned bearing the head of 
Holofernes, probably a kind of "country dance" danced by 
two rows of girls. 

I can hardly leave this part of my subject without referring 
to the Dance of Salome, though I have devoted a later chap- 
ter to it. What this dance actually may have been it is dif- 
ficult to conjecture, but most authorities agree that it must 
have been one of the strongly dramatic representations of 
human passion, which found expression then, as it does now, 
in mimetic dance. One of the older versions of the New Tes- 
tament records that she "vaulted," and this has given the 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 13 

impression that her dance was acrobatic rather than grace- 
ful, and perhaps more curious than polite. Indeed, there is a 
well known miniature from a manuscript of the fourteenth 
century in which Salome is represented as dancing on her 
hands, with her feet in the air. I can only hope and believe, 
as students of the middle ages believe, that the painter was 
merely inspired by the recollection of the mountebanks who 
visited English and Continental fairs in the dawn of man- 
ners, with whom this particular feat was a favourite illus- 
tration of their skill. 

We must next trace the History of the Art in Rome, and 
while doing so, it must be borne in mind that Rome was still 
in a condition of barbarism when the civilisation of Greece 
was almost at its zenith. Passing over the war-dance called 
Bellicrepa, said to have been invented by Romulus to cele- 
brate the Rape of the Sabines, the earliest account we have 
of Roman dancing is that of the Salii, twelve priests appoint- 
ed by the pacific Numa Pompilius to celebrate the gods in 
ceremonial and warlike dances. It was not long, however, 
before the Romans adopted the arts of Greece, as it had al- 
ready adopted its gods, and we may take it that the Greek 
methods of dancing found a ready acceptance, and that danc- 
ing in Rome speedily attained a development that fell not 
far short of the Greek originals. It is not surprising, regard 
being had to the nature and origin of the Roman people, 
that what was bad in the art of dancing, soon gained a firm 
foothold, and that the art rapidly reached the condition of 
degeneracy which it attained by slower degrees in Greece. 
Scipo Emilius records his visit to a school where noble chil- 
dren were educated, and where "a boy of twelve performed 
a dance worthy of the most degraded slave." The Baccha- 
nalia, originally of a religious and ceremonial character, soon 
became corrupted into mere orgies; the Lupercalia, dances 
in honour of the god Pan, shared the same fate, and it may 
be said that, until the x\ugustan era, dancing as a distinct art 
was confined to Tuscan buffoons. It was, however, a condi- 
tion of affairs that led insensibly to a high development of 
the aft of pantomime, which at the dawn of the Augustan 
age had become the mania, the rage of the Roman populace. 
The Ludiones of the rival pantomimists, Bathyllus and Py- 
lades, divided the city into factions, and men and women alike 



14 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

view with one another in their adhesion to, and patronage (to 
the point of imitation) of, these rival leaders. Cicero and 
Horace both stigmatised dancing as an infamous practice, 
and we have it on record that Sallust reproached a Roman 
lady with the taunt that ''she danced with tc3o much skill for 
a virtuous woman/' The most famous female dancers in 
Rome were the Gaditanians, a class of women who came 
from Cadiz, and, so great was their renown, that we find 
their eulogies in the works of Martial, Pliny, Petronius, Ap- 
pian and Strabo. The ''Gaditanian Delights," as they were 
called, may be said to have been the earliest prime ballerina 
in the history of the art. 

The power of dancing as a means of appealing to the feel- 
ings of the populace did not escape the Fathers of the Early 
Christian Church, and many accounts have come down to us 
by way of reference to the Ritual dances of that Church. As 
early as 744 A.D. these dances were forbidden by a decree 
of Pope Zacharias. In the 12th century religious dances were 
banned by Bishop Odo of Paris, and they w^ere again inter- 
dicted by a decree of Parliament in 1667, but the clergy, in 
whose hands was the sale of licenses to institute these func- 
tions, did all in their power to resist and set at nought the 
decrees. Such dances still obtain upon anniversary festivals 
to-day in many Continental cities, especially in Spain, and the re- 
ligious dances at Limoges in honour of St. Martial are a notable 
aces in point. The dancing Dervishes of the East afford another 
instance of a survival of the kind. 

Purely secular dancing of the earlier classic kind appears 
to have enjoyed a revival amongst the early Gauls, but it 
was of a debased type, and we iind it forbidden in the year 
554 by Childebert. With the birth of chivalry in the early 
middle ages we note the real renaissance of the dance, and it 
is easy to trace the influence and traditions of the early 
Greek School in the Rondes, Boures and Branles of Auvergne, 
and the Minuets and Farandoles of Languedoc and elsewhere 
in the South of France, where the popular dances of the coun- 
try people differ little to-day from those that were danced a 
thousand years ago. These were the dances of the Provinces. 
At Court, dancing had developed into Masquerades, and from 
thence to the Ballet was an easy and natural step. At one of 
the earliest of these (still known as the "Ballet des Ardents") 



MY LIFE AND DANCING IS 

Charles VI., being present, dressed as a savage, his costume 
caught fire, and he suffered a shock that brought about his 
madness. 

Theatrical dancing, as we know it to-day, had its origin in 
Italy, where, at the end of the 15th century. Cardinal Riario, 
nephew of the Pope, composed Ballets and had them per- 
formed by his own company in the Castle of St. Angelo. 
In Italy the Medicis revived the dances of ancient Greece 
and Rome. The art flourished in the 16th and 17th centuries, 
and side b}^ side with the stately Pavanes and Courantes, 
associated with the names of Louis XIII., Richlieu and 
Henry IV., we have the contrasting pictures of the Dances 
of Death that owed their existence to Albert Durer and 
Holbein. 

The apogee of the Art of Dancing was reached in the 
reign of Louis XIV., who founded the Academic de la Danse 
in 1661 with Quinault as director, and J. B. Lully as com- 
poser. It was not, however, until 1681 that women dancers 
appeared again upon the stage, and we have an account of 
the performance at this time of four ladies in a Ballet enti- 
tled ''Le Triomphe de V Amour." Dancing continued to be 
more and more elegant and refined during the reigns of 
Louis XV. and XVI., when the Gavotte and Minuet recalled 
some of the stately graces of old times. But suddenly the 
end came, the music was silenced, the lights extinguished, 
and in the place of the elegant dances in the palaces, men 
and women ran riot in the streets, dancing — dancing madly. 

It was the Carmagnole, the dance of the Revolution! 
* * * 

The exaggerated classic revival that took place at the time 
of the Directoire brought back with it a theatrical resurrec- 
tion of some of the classic modes, but they died out again, 
giving place to the modern style which dates from 1830. 

^ ^ '^ 

In the foregoing short sketch of the History of Classical 
Dancing, I have tried to show, within the restricted limits 
to which I am necessarily confined, that in all ages in which 
dancing properly so-called has flourished, it has been, not so 
much the aim as the natural condition of the Art, to express 
the nature, the characteristics, the em.otions of those who 
have pursued it. Nations dance — when the}^ dance naturalh'^ 



16 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

— to the tune of their destinies. The moment that dancing 
becomes bound by rules and conventions it loses the very 
rationale of its existence. Who then shall say that true 
dancing can be taught? As well might we try to teach the 
birds to sing, the butterflies to soar, by rote and measure 
among the glades and the flowers. 

It was not with taught precision of scholastic methods, it 
was not in ambition to realise perfection in a given mode, 
that we danced in the shady groves and sunlit meads of 
Argolis, or by the murmuring seas of the Sicily of Theocritus. 



CHAPTER II. 



CHILDHOOD. 



It is SO refreshing and delightful to rest awhile — to take a 
minute now and then to hark back to my first memories — 
to close my eyes and just imagine that I am the little Maud 
of other days, with my dollies as my constant companions. 

As I write I have in my mind my first doll-baby — a china 
baby, with stiff little yellow-tinted china ringlets, blue eyes 
and a tiny rosebud mouth. Her hands and feet, too, were 
china, and I did love her so. She came to me when I was 
only five months' old, and then and there I named her Minnie, 
so they tell me. Her baby years, too, were not without ad- 
venture and excitement, she being once almost burned to 
death in the oven of the great kitchen stove, and only rescued 
by chance when the big, fat, good-natured cook was about to 
put glorious big, round plum cake into the oven to bake. 
Another time my baby fell. She had been climbing about 
after the fashion of her tiny mother over chair and table, 
and so lost her balance and down she went. I found the poor 
dear lying unconscious on the floor, with her arms and legs 
broken. Could a mother imagine anything more dreadful? 
I ran to reecue her, but while tenderly lifting the poor little 
body, the sawdust streamed to the floor. I dropped her as 
quickly. I ran screaming to mother. *'Oh, my dolly is blood- 
ing!" I was not to be comforted till I saw poor china baby 
taken to the hospital to get well. And so she was, and came 
home with rosy cheeks and new hands and feet too! This 
time, though, of wood, and so pretty they were, although not 
quite so white as the limbs of old; but mamma assured me 
they were ever so much stronger, so I was satisfied and de- 
lighted to have my baby back again. 

All this while we were growing older and wiser, and soon 
the advent of a great big beautiful wax baby, with ''real" 
golden curls — the kind we can comb just as mothers comb 
their babies' curls — put poor little old-fashioned Minnie's 
nose out of joint. They got along wonderfully well together, 



\ 
\ 



18 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

but I noticed how Minnie grew more reserved and self-sacri- 
ficing, till at last she would do anything in the thought of 
pleasing her new sister. But now the dears are mouldering 
away their dolls' lives in the bottom of an old trunk; their 
useful days are over, and their noses smudgy and flattened. 

I imagine the mother of a real live baby has something 
of the same feeling that a small girl has for a well-beloved 
doll. Minnie came to me in Canada, and, as I have Iready 
said, when I was five months' old, in the first home that I 
can remember. How curiously a child's mind retains some 
impressions! 

While nearly everything else has faded from my memory 
about my Canadian home. I have a vivid recollection of the 
old base burner in the hall-way, the clear isinglass windows 
of which gave out the fire brightly on winter nights. From 
this same stove came my first intimate acquaintance with 
Santa Claus, and Minnie fell from the pack on his back 
through the front door of that stove. 

I remember Santa Claus — dear old merry Santa Claus! 
How a child's heart bounds with expectation and joy at the 
nearing of Christmastide, with the clanging of joy bell^, the 
hurry and bustle of the ''grown-ups" with their grand air of 
secret-keeping! And then Santa Claus! One hears the 
tinkling bells of his merry steeds far away over the snowy 
hill tops, the crack of the long whip as he fairly flies in 
his haste to visit all the good and loving little tots waiting 
his coming. I remember it was Christmas Eve. I had been 
told again the story and meaning of the hour, and, too. of the 
long white-bearded Santa Claus who loved us and w-ould on 
this night deliver gifts rejoicing with us all. 

We were tucked away in our little cots, my dollies and I, 
but not before we had taken the longest stockings we could 
find and hung them up at the open fireplace so that Santa 
would not have far to go to fill them with precious goodies. 
But we couldn't sleep, so busy were we thinking of good 
Santa and the desire burning within us to see him. 

It was still and dark about us, and we waited. Soon we 
heard something. "'Tis Santa! Come quick!" Away we 
sped dowm the broad staircase. By the big base burner was 
an enormous basket loaded with strange things, and little 
mother, hearing the pitter-patter of the little feet, peeped 



MY LIFE AND DANCING . 19 

around the corner to warn us not to come near, as Santa 
Claus was there, and had said he would stop till the morning 
if we would now run back to our dreamland nook and be 
patient 

And Santa did stop, and Santa caught me in his arms and 
let me fondle his long snowy beard and play with the white 
locks which hung to his shoulders, and ride in the now 
empty sack on his back and play with the beautiful whip 
that had fired his air ponies on in order that he might come 
to visit me! 

Shall I ever forget? Never, if I live to be a thousand! 

My baby heart, too, loved and lived in fairy-tales. Even 
now I revel in them, and nothing is sweeter than to let myself 
be carried off to mystic lands and mingle with the dear fairies. 

I remember clearly the first time I heard of the ''Babes in 
the Wood." I remember, too, going off and covering myself 
with the leaves that had fallen from the trees in the great gar- 
den. 

Another delight was — although I was but four years old — 
to stand up in the big swing and "work up" till the ropes were 
at right angles with the tall piles supporting them. Of course, 
this was to the great distress of my nurse and mother, but I 
loved it. The excitement seemed good to me, and I would 
grip the rope tighter and wish I could fly as high as the 
birches. 

Another recollection, still as clear as though it had happened 
but yesterday, is that of burning my right forefinger. I carry 
the scar to-day, but it was the first real showing of my interest 
in life, in that I wanted to find out everything for myself. 
Mamma said the stove was hot, and it would burn me, and the 
burn would pain, if I should touch it. But curiosity was upper- 
most in my litle brain, and I wondered and wondered if it 
could possibly be that to touch the hot stove meant pain ! It 
did look so pretty, — red, bright, brilliant, glowing red in spots — 
and I touched it. 

A pleasure unbounded for all children in northern countries 
is the snow. Glorious piles of white, sparkling snow will 
hold the attention of the most capricious youngsters for hours. 
Oft have we coasted in our pretty sleigh with our great New- 
foundland dog as leader, down the great hills of snow, and 



20 " MY LIFE AND DANCING 

oft through one little side step of the knowing and fun-loving 
animal were we thrown at the bottom into great drifts, till only 
our feet were exposed to teh the tale. Oftimes my mother 
thought she had lost her baby-girl in the great pile of whiteness. 
Rover stood by and laughed, yes, till his conscience pricked him 
and he would pretend to gather us all up again, and then tear 
up the hill in a hurry to begin all over again. What a pity 
such companions cannot talk ! 

Then I remember being taken by my parents — and my dollies 
taken by me — and together with our governess we turned our 
faces tovv^ards Cahfornia. And then, in that beautiful State of 
roses and sunshine, I received my first real life lessons. 

Speaking of my journey from Canada to San Francisco brings 
to my remembrance one peculiar incident that will ever remain 
as one of my vivid childish recollections. The train stopped 
at a way side station, and most of the passengers alighted to 
obtain glimpses of the many Indians who haunted the place 
to sell their wares. I don't think my mother once thought of 
rui}^ danger to me, but suddenly she missed me, just as the train 
vxas pulling out of the station. There was a hurried search, 
but I was nowhere to be found. Instantly the conductor pulled 
back to the platform, and there, running off towards the woods 
with a glint of flaxen hair under her arm discernible from the 
edge of the red blank'^t, was an Indian squaw with another red 
woman in her trail. My mother says that it was the vivid 
colour of my hair lijing in the wind that attracted the atten- 
tion of miy friends. 

Of course, I was rescued immediately, and soon, babylike, 
I forgot my fear, and before we were half way to our destina- 
tion I was making free with my fellow-passengers, as brave 
as ever. But even to-day I can close m}^ eyes and see the 
reddish-brown face bending over mine as the Indian woman 
whipped me up under her arm and started off. 

I know that I caused my parents a great deal of uneasiness, 
for I was not the dreamy sort of a child that so many people 
think I was, but a romp of a girl with ambitions to climb the 
highest trees and to see the sun rise from the top of the 
tallest mountain. 

It seemed more natural to me to climb the fence upon entering 
the garden from school than to go in by the gate. I don't to 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 21 

this day know why, yet fence-climbing did have a fascination 
for me. Naturally, too, it brought me many a fall, and serious 
ones at that, but I seemed never to be convinced of either 
the impropriety of the act or the danger involved to me and 
my pretty clothes, although Nurse would talk and scold all 
the time she mended the horrible rents in pinafore and stock- 
ings. , I would then try and comfort her, saying, "Never mind, 
Nursie ; there are such heaps of lots prettier stockings and 
pinafores in the shops, and we can get some new ones." I 
valued little the dainty things I used to wear at that time. Later, 
I allowed my two dear dollies — especially Mabel, because she 
grew to be such a big, lovely girl — to wear them; and she is laid 
to rest in the big trunk in the Httle dress she liked best. 

When about seven years old, I was sent to the country for 
six months. Being rather frail, the orders were to let me 
run wild. Not that I needed any encouragement! I loved 
to go barefoot and hatless, chasing the butterflies and making 
friends with the wild flowers. To be in such perfect contact 
with Nature was a joy hitherto almost unknown to me, and 
I was ravished with its delights, and grew and grew. The 
waving golden corn, the murmuring brooks, the little tumbling 
waterfalls and the singing of the birds, all delighted me and 
made m.e think about what it all meant and why it all was. I 
came to many conclusions, but the impressions were daily so 
varied that I often had to change my ideas, and for a time 
I grew unhappy at not being able to unravel the great mystery. 
At such moments I would run to the village school, and the 
headmaster would allow me to sit in a class-room and listen to 
the instruction. This seemed to help and soothe my brain, 
and I would go away feeling quite at ease again. 

Once at this village school I entered a "spelling match," and 
kept up almost to the last. Then — how annoyed I was ! — I 
had to take my seat because I missed spelling "unanimous." I 
thought, as I took my seat — so ashamed — that had the girl 
before me not missed it too, I was sure I could have kept up, 
because then the teacher would not have given me, a little girl, 
as hard a word as he would a big girl ! 

I pass onward. 

The so-called primary classes at school were over, and the 
orammar grades, with the many enchanting studies, were knock- 



22 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

ing at the door when we went camping for the first time. I 
don't think any European knows what real camping-out means^ 
unless he or she has been to America and gone through it. A 
greater, purer freedom one can never imagine. The charms 
of early morning berry-picking excursions, eht swimming, moun- 
tain-climbing, and the grand bonfire of large six-foot logs 
piled up in dozens blazing at night, while one swings lazily to 
and fro in the low-stretched hammocks, are only known to real 
campers. One can imagine oneself free from every sorrow and 
care, free from the world's hurry and scurry. 

In Green Valley, high up in the Californian mountains, I 
learned to ride bareback, and at an early age I was keen on 
both swimming and riding. Though I had a dear little horse 
for my own special use, I determined to ride the largest one 
on the farm, and one day mounted it. All went well till, re- 
turning, the poor thing suddenly doubled up with pain. I did 
not know what to do. I could not keep my seat for long at 
the pace he was going, and the way he was tossing himself, 
and I was contemplating grabbing the fi.rst low tree branch to 
let him slip from under me when, rounding the hill leading 
to the out stables, he threw me, and unhappily uphill, for I rolled 
under his iron-shod hoofs. 

I was carried to the house, and for hours lay in a ver}^ critical 
condition, while my poor steed, in spite of all veterinar}^ assist- 
ance, breathed his last in the early dawn. 

I thought nothing of my own pain when they told me next 
morning that "Frank" was dead of a frightful colic. I forgave 
him my injuries. He never would have hurt me had he not 
been driven mad through suffering. 

My little legs were cut from knee to ankle, and I was con- 
fined to bed for weeks. Even now the slightest pressure where 
the gashes were reminds me of those hours of pain. Had it not 
been for my dear mother, who nursed me day and night, I am 
sure I never should have got well so soon. Her every touch 
seemed life-giving and healing. 

Many "animal" accidents have befallen me. I have noticed 
all my life long that dogs seem to like the taste of my flesh, 
for several times they have bitten pieces out of my legs and 
arms, I suppose under the impression that I disliked them, when 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 23 

the fact of the matter is I adore them — when they don't bite 
me. 

Even since growing up I have been bitten once by a dog 
and another time by a cab horse. The horse episode was ludi- 
crous, although I suppose it is hard to imagine anything funny 
in a horse trying to eat one up. And now I think of it, I'm 
supposed to be in the memories of my childhood, but as I've 
started to write about the horse I will continue to do so. 

The horse seemed to be eating quietly out of his leathern 
pouch, and as I passed under the swinging bag I had no 
idea of intruding upon him. I suppose I must have hit his 
dinner-bag, for, before I had straightened my back to stand up, 
he gave a snort, raised his head, and gripped my arm tightly 
between his teeth. As it was winter, my furs protected me 
somewhat, and the teeth did not break the skin. But the pain 
brought a cry, and the horse freed my arm. The cabman, who 
was sitting eating his luncheon, scattered his meal to the four 
winds, crawled out upon his horse's back, and commenced to 
beat the beast with his fists. I suppose at any other time I 
would have stopped him, but just at that particular moment I 
was busy assuring myself that a part of my arm was not left 
in the horse's mouth. 

By this time a crowd of curious people had gathered, and 
a controversy was in the air when I took my first opportunity 
of slipping through the crowd and leaving the whole — cabmen, 
horse, and crowd — behind. 

There is a peculiarity about a German crowd (this happened 
in Berlin) when anything happens. Very soon, without any 
relation to rhyme or reason, they get into a heated discussion, 
and the assistance of the sturdy, ever-ready-to-interfere police 
is often needed to scatter the crowd. 

With every recollection of my childhood I call to mind in- 
stinctively the picture of my dear home in California. My 
world in those days was bounded on the v/est by the beautiful, 
restless Pacific, while to the north-east lay Canada, which, 
though my eyes could not see it, I knew was there. The other 
parts of the world I had yet to see, and I bothered little about 
them. The great ocean, with its uneven roll of waves and far- 
tossing foam, left a deep imprint upon m.y mind. The sound of 
rushing water ever carried me back again to California, leaving 



24 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

me on the vast Pacific shores, dancing in the waves with my 
playmates. 

With a view to becoming" a pianist by profession, I first made 
acquaintance with the fearful joys of the piano-lesson when, at 
a very early age, I was placed in the San Francisco School of 
Music under the able tuition of Prof. E. S. Bonelli There 
I began to learn the preliminaries, and to grind out yards of 
scales when but five and a half years old. From the very be- 
ginning I knew what rhythm meant, for I think it was born in 
me, but the mystic sounds of Nature have always drawn from 
me my best both in music and imagery. 

It was whilst at this school that I was inspired once to orga- 
nise a small class to train some children in music. On Sat- 
urdays I gathered the tots about me, and very strictly did I 
assert my authority. My first feeling of elation under the ap- 
probation of my fellows came when I was a small girl. The 
baby class did so well under my care and guidance that it was 
pubhcly commented upon, and I took to myself some of the 
printed laurels which were bestowed upon its tiny members. 

My work outside my school studies seemed now to be defi- 
nitely decided upon, although I had marked talent for clay- 
modelling and wood-carving, to which I had, in spite of m> 
other work, taken a great fancy. I was to become a musician — 
a pianist of fame — and I read with growing interest and delight 
Amy Fay's book on her stay in Germany. I read of the grand 
old masters and the charm that lay in their methods and work, 
and longed, as an enthusiastic child can long, for the days 
to come when I too should be bundled off to the fair lands of 
the Old World with their mystic beauties and wonderful arts. 

I dug down in these years into the history of music, and 
worked hard at the theory of it all. My interest was high 
and my enthusiasm unbounded. 

About this time came the great and glorious Sarah Bernhardt 
to San Francisco. My ambitious little heart burned within 
me. She was the one woman in the world I wanted to rival, 
and I have not lost the feeling yet. So great an artist, and 
yet so simple and childlike, it is no wonder that every one 
loves her. I think the turning point in my career came from 
my first sight of that great woman. 

She inspired me to express my thoughts in another man- 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 2S 

ner. I had hitherto used the piano as my medium, but when 
I played alone in the drawing-room I could feel the call of 
another art than I had chosen. Once my mother stole in 
softly and seated herself not far from me. When I had fin- 
ished she wispered, ''Of what is my httle girl thinking that 
she plays like that?" 

"Of Sarah Bernhardt's wonderful talent, of the beautiful move- 
ments of her body," replied I. "She seems to express more 
with it than with her lips." 

My m.other did not understand, so remained silent as I played 
on and on, never tiring as unconsciously I wove a dance to 
the theme of the old masters. As a matter of fact, I did not 
understand myself then. Since, I have often seen Madame 
Bernhardt in Paris, and always experienced the same curious 
delight in her performance that I did as a child. 

How strange it all is ! My mind alternates between my 
Californian home and these lands over here, and much as I 
desire that they remain separate for a time, they blend them- 
selves into one great world over which I look with fondest 
recollections. 

Once upon a time, in California — one would think it a fairy 
tale by the beginning, and so it may be well called — for it has 
to do w^ith my first fairy prince — I met with my first sentimental 
experience. I was nine years old, and he nineteen. I sat 
beside him as he talked gravely upon his student life with all 
the dignity of his age — I admiring him every minute. Day 
after day I went out with him, sometimes dancing on before, 
sometimes clasping his hand in mine. Once, I remember, there 
was a picnic and it was there I heard my fate. As I bounded 
along with a pink sunshade, he walking sedately with a basket 
of cake and sandwiches upon his arm, he said : 

"I'm going away soon." 

"Where?" 

"Back to my college. But when you are quite grown up 
I shall come again for you." 

Day after day for two years I expected to grow up sud- 
denly, and only forgot my student after being assured by my 
mother that I would not be grown up for many years. As 1 
look back I honestly believe that was my first love affair, and 
I expect in every girl's life come just such events. 



26 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

Out of that incident I received an impression that love was 
comradeship, and meant being good companions with some 
brave youth. Men seemed designed to help girls over creeks,, 
and to carry the lunch basket and bear burdens, while girls — 
well, they were made just to be around all the time, to be the 
sunshine, and to make things livelier. 

But this idea was soon to be suddenly dissipated. For some 
weeks a teacher in the school I attended had dined with us 
often. Accordingly, he and I walked from the High School 
building home. Being just fifteen and my dresses lengthened 
that spring, it gave rise to comments from my girl friends. 

One day one of them mysteriously took me into my mother's 
garden and whispered the news in my ear. She had heard 
on the best authority that I was going to marry the professor. 
Going home that evening I said to him quite carelessly : — 

"I've heard such a stupid thing. Frances says people are 
saying that some day you and I are going to be married, like 
father and mother." 

We stood before my home, and he turned upon me suddenly, 
saying : — 

''Well, little girl, what if it were so? What if we should 
promise each other here and now — " 

I didn't wait to hear more. My good comrade had gone, 
and in his place stood a grave, serious man I greatly disliked at 
that moment. I st^imp^d my foot, dropped my books in the 
dust, and in a rage tore around the house and, jumping over 
the back fence, rushed to a friend's house, and refused to come 
back until after he had gone. 

So much for childish affections and girlish attachments. The 
last experience knocked all illusions out of my head. But I 
laugh now as I remember the spiteful manner in which I threw 
down my books and ran away. I had lost a friend and found 
a lover, and was not at all pleased with the change. 

As I get more and more into the retrospective mood, I find 
old days crowding so closely upon me that tears make my written 
words look like the scratches of an old mother-hen digging for 
her chicks. Well, so am I digging into the depths of memories 
long since laid by. One of the sweetest happened about my 
sixteenth birthday; in fact, covered the entire year. . I had 
grown passionately fond of music, and it had long since been 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 27 

counted my lifework, and, thinking it necessary that every little 
girl be started in the right way in her first musical days, I 
gathered about me, for the second time, because I loved them, 
hfteen or twenty children, and together we studied the prelim- 
inaries of music which I had already mastered. 

Only a short time ago a friend from California told me 
that one of these children — she's quite a young lady now — said : — 

''I learned so much under 'Miss Maud.' I think it was 
because she was so sympathetic with me, and loved me so 
well." 

It seemed to be my greatest ambition to have these children 
learn all I had learned. I worked hours with them when 
other girls would have been playing, and they never seemed 
anxious to pack up their books to go, but ever read}^ with new 
questions. 

At the end of each month I examined them just as in real 
school, and although we were all children together, they were 
as proud and anxious to earn my praise as if I had been a 
stern professor. 

I have only the highest words of praise for my father and 
mother in that they kept me so diligently at studies I needed 
outside my music. It is not considered necessary by many 
parents to press a girl into ordinary studies, such as history, 
mathematics and the hke, if it has been decided the child 
should follow an artistic career. But if mothers knew how it 
broadens and expands naturally bright minds to dig into the 
experiences of great men's lives, which can only be done 
through books, they would not only help and advise but would 
insist and command. The living often gain a vast amount of 
aid in the minutest and most personal things from the dead, 
especially from the study of historical literature. 

That is why I would implore young people entering upon a 
vocation of art to have a firm foundation upon which to build 
before starting out. It is the same as when one builds ? 
beautiful home. No man with common sense would erect a 
mansion upon a foundation of sand. So no girl with high 
ambitions can enter into a glorious life of art without the 
knowledge of the world as it is revealed in books. Travel only 
adds to that knowledge and enhances it, broadening and making 
the character of the girl more fitted for her life-w^ork. Just 



28 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

how much gratitude a girl owes to her parents if they are judi- 
cious and well balanced she will never realise until she com- 
pares a well-rounded career, a full and varied life, with that 
of the ordinary artist who has nothing but her art for both 
foundation and coping stone, 

I can remember well talking to a very young girl who was 
by nature a genius. But only this one part of her soul-life had 
been developed, while all the rest was in a deplorable state of 
neglect. I knew also another young genius whose natural gift 
for study had been sacrificed for the art she had chosen. The 
result was sad indeed. She was like a lopped tree with only 
one branch left, or a person with but one limb, and the genius 
which should have been her happiness was but her bane. She 
had no chance of recreation, for her very soul as well as her 
mind seemed one-sided, and she became simply a monomaniac 
on her genius side, while had she been well trained she might 
have been a charming, interesting and noble woman, and her 
life's success assured, instead of being as she was — merel}' 
another genius who failed. 

She said to me: — 

''1 hate to study books — I simply hate it. Now when Yiv. 
working at my piano, then I am happy and most diligent, but 
the moment I sit down at my books, then my mind wanders 
and I cannot keep ni}- attention upon what is before me." 

"My dear litle girl," said I, ''listen to me. If you would 
make a success in your piano work, — and remember this is the 
experience of many who have climbed the difficult path you 
are on — if your mind wanders from your work, no matter what 
it is, it shows that it wants disciplining, and for that disease 
one of the best cures is the study of mathematics, EuclM, and 
the like. And to arouse ambition you must know w^hat others 
have done before you. If you receive no impetus from the 
successes and failures of others, then what a vast amount of 
energy is lost in the world in preparing for you and me the 
high example of the life-works of men dead and gone." 

But there ! I am giving you a lecture, and I didn't intend to. 

Afterwards I discovered that this same small girl was com- 
pelled to leave her work and enter a college for beginners before 
she was able to interpret correctly the minds of the masters 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 29 

she loved. I suppose I dwell upon this because out of the 
humdrum days of my school time I received so much. 

I learned, when adding up my sums, that the piano keys 
must be forgotten — that I must not think of the wonders of 
Beethoven and Chopin. And it is not hard for me to bring 
out of the storehouse of my mind the exact words my mother 
used to say to me when I became discouraged. We were 
great pals, my mother and I. One morning I was in a rage 
over a problem that I could not solve, and she took me upstairs 
alone, and there she said : — 

"Has my little daughter lost all her splendid ambition?" 

"No, indeed ! But I would rather play, it's so much easier." 

"That's because you like it, Maud dear. And let me tell my 
girl this, that it is the things in life we don't want to do that 
count in the end for us. Remember this — if you aim high, 
you'll hit high. If you skid your stone along the ground, i^ 
can rise no higher, but thrown into the air it must go some- 
where." 

I went meekly back to my sums, and — well, now I am glad 
I did it ! 

I grew to love my school, my books, mj work. It was a 
disappointment verging on a sorrow to me if I were com- 
pelled to miss one day's instruction, through illness or other 
good reason. I felt as though my sun was setting for ever 
when I left for the last time the school-room, with its dear 
familiar setting. I would wander down, between that day 
and the one on which I left for the Old World, time after 
time, and visit the old haunts. It gave me comfort to take 
out my books and fondle them. I hated to put them away, 
but, alas! it had to be, and I delved down into the treasures 
of my music as only we can when trying to become recon- 
ciled to a great sorrow. 

From this point on my life began to change. The serious- 
ness of world problems began to take hold of me, and I grew 
greatly interested in the new trend of things. I had often 
played in public from the time I was twelve years of age, 
but now my ambitions seemed to give me no rest. To go 
abroad and become great filled my heart with a longing not 
to be stilled. I attended all the concerts of the great artists, 
and once, although in the afternoon, I had been fearfully bit- 



30 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

ten by a savage Newfoundland dog, I would not forego the 
great pleasure of hearing Adele aus der Ohe play that night. 

Her wonderful technique inspired me so that I forgot 
entirely the painful wound of which I carry the scar to this 
day, where the great white teeth caught and pierced the 
flesh. It was days before I could go back to my own scale- 
playing, but I didn't waste my time. Loaded with Duchesse 
and La France roses from our own lovely garden, I went 
to the hotel where this clever artist was staying and made 
her acquaintance. She seemed to take an interest in me, 
too, and many instructive and delightful hours were spent 
with her during her stay in San Francisco. 

With renewed courage I went back to my own work when 
the bandages were removed, and the time sped along, and 
the day for my parting from my home, my childhood, and 
my many dear friends came. 



CHAPTER III. 



MEMORIES. 



It was about now, I believe, that my first real inspiration 
for dancing came to me. I had never received dancing les- 
sons, as most of the little girls I knew had, for my spare 
time outside of school hours and a little recreation was taken 
up with my music. Unconsciously, however, I drew from 
Nature and its rhythm an abiding sense of peace, and when 
studying my daily lessons under the trees, while others were 
engrossed in their own affairs, I danced by the brooks and 
streams with no thought of step, no thought of preconceived 
rhythms. 

It was the poetry of motion in the running brooks and 
the rhythm of the tossing branches that gave me a desire 
to express something within me by the grace of motion. 
And while I did not mention it to my mother, I believed 
that I could go into the country where the master-minds 
had lived and worked, that I too could demonstrate in the 
movements of the body the delight of my favourite com- 
posers. 

It was never a pleasure to me to watch a ballet. My 
mother tells me that even as a little child I once asked her 
why the little angels and fairies in it had such ugly skin 
and such blunt feet without toes. In the beautiful pictures 
adorning the walls of the Art Galleries I had always seen 
fairies and the like, but they looked so beautiful, and at ease. 
I could see them move when I looked with half closed eyes, 
and never was there a sharp turning to hurt one's feelings. 
But at the theatre I saw such ugly ones! They offended my 
eyes, and when mother said it was not the real skin, but pink 
fleshings to represent skin, I was greatly annoyed. "That 
is why it is so ugly then," 'I said. "Skin never looked like 
that, and why just ^represent?' Why not be as the beautiful 
figures in the paintings?" 

And twirling on the toe-points in the padded, stiffened, pink 
satin, formless ballet shoe gave me much to think about. I 



32 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

had the greatest difficulty in bringing myself even to think 
kindly of the achievement, for it is certainly an achievement 
to do such a feat, however un-normal and utterly senseless it 
may be. 

All the light, gay naturalness, the very joy of living, seemed 
barred from the production. The hearts of these little 
dancers seemed turned to stone, and fear of the harsh words 
of the training master and hours of toil seemed the tale told 
in the hard, stereotyped smile on the little faces. I was un- 
happy. Many times after I had first seen a ballet I pon- 
dered over the question of the truthfulness of such dancing. 
Was it dancing, as dancing ought to be, and as dancing was 
originally conceived? I came to the conclusion it was not! 
To me it was but the rude outgrowth of an art once very 
beautiful and adored, and to this deformed, brainless child 
the world was paying homage, and leaving the perfect, beauti- 
ful mother to die! I was filled with a longing and a sadness 
hitherto unknown to me. 

When it was decided that I should go to Berlin and take 
up my studies there, I could hardly wait for the time to 
come. Yet I dreaded leaving my mother and father, my 
home and my treasures. 

I remember that when it was settled and my brave, cour- 
ageous mother was blinking back her tears, I said with the 
egotism of a very young girl — 

"Some day, dear, you shall come to me over there, when I 
have made you proud of your daughter.*' 

How well I remember her answer! 

*Tf you are the most famous woman in the world, I shall 
never be able to love you better, for, Maudie dear, aren't you 
my baby?" 

Then we both forgot for a time that we were going to be 
brave and different from other women, and mingled our 
tears as only a mother and daughter can when a separation 
of many thousands of miles is staring them in the face. 

Of course the long journey had its charms, and once the 
tears h?.d been well braved back, my interest awoke, and I 
was the busy, inquisitive little mite of old. I remember we 
were blockaded for hours in the great snow districts .(it was 
February) of Arizona. In the middle of the night the train 
suddenly halted. No station in sight, my first thought was 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 33 

of "robbers." Curiously enough, robberies are almost as 
numerous now as in the days of mail coaches, and I was 
ready to cover up my head with the bed clothes in the hope 
of being overlooked when they looted the passengers. Then 
all my fears were dispelled by the gay shouts of some fellow- 
travellers who had already opened a snowball battle up the 
line. It took but a very little time for me to help in the 
fray, for, if there was anything I did love, it was snow, and 
I had not had a good pile of it since we left our Canadian 
home years before. 

To me, though, the most interesting part of the journey 
was the trip across the Atlantic. It was not as eventful as 
it m.ight have been after the first two days out. On those 
days we were met by the full force of a terrific storm, which 
buffeted the great liner about in the angry sea like a cork. 
One had to fight one's way across the deck inch by inch, 
clutching at the handrails all the time. Those of the passen- 
gers who remained on deck — a very few — were lashed to their 
deck chairs and the chairs to the railings. Luckily I am a 
good sailor, but I was sadly disconcerted on this day. The 
first night out brought its trials and tribulations, and also the 
greatest fairy revel I had ever witnessed. 

I had dropped ofif to slumberland, when suddenly I was 
awakened by a terrific thud at my cabin door. The noise 
was followed by a pitter-patter as of dainty feet, as though 
someone were executing a light dance just inside my room. 
I held my breath and peered at the door dimly outlined in 
the gloom. Fantastic fancies flitted through my brain. The 
boat rolled, and something fell heavily against the opposite 
side of the cabin. In a dim way I realised what had hap- 
pened. I had neglected to see my cabin trunk fastened under 
the couch, and my smaller belongings in safe places, and now 
all were rolling to and fro across the floor. My relief was 
so intense that I believe I laughed, and for long I watched 
the antics of what my imagination had now transformed into 
dancing fairies with the big trunk the Fairy King and my 
bag with its silver mountings his sprightly queen. It was a 
gorgeous fete they were holding, in which even Lord Tooth- 
brush and Lady Hairpin played important roles, and to the 
music of the surging waves and their splash against the 
cabin porthole their revels were kept up till dawn. 



34 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

I watched them until sheer weariness forced me into a 
dreamless sleep, but the next morning, when I had to hunt 
on hands and knees for every one of my things, recalled all 
again to my memory most vividly. 

The storm over, sunshine accompanied us for the rest of 
the voyage, and delightful it was. 

Bremerhaven gave me the first real experience of the gut- 
tural German tongue. My head grew dizzy, and my heart 
heavy. I thought I should never be able to master such a 
language! This seemed now to me to be my very next step 
to take, for during the next few days — we had gone on to 
Berlin — I realised how lost and forlorn one was without be- 
ing able to express one's own needs and desires. I almost 
felt like running away from it all, it did seem so appalling 
and when I heard the tiny tots in the streets chattering away 
as though it were the easiest thing. in the world to use these 
strange-sounding words, that seemed to have no beginning 
and no end, I grew positively jealous! It was those childreu 
who gave mie the courage to get down to work. I felt sd 
stupid! 

My reward came, too. very soon. A natural gift for lan- 
guages and a well disciplined mind helped me along, and 
soon I. too, could chatter and joke and be serious in a lan- 
guage that grows in beauty the more you study and progres:* 
in it. 

Long before I haci got this far in the German language 
however, I had begun my earnest hard study of my chosen 
instrument at the Royal High School of Music. 

I look back with pleasure to those years of student life, 
longings and ambitions. I loved a good rainy day; then I 
tnrew myself with all my energy into my work, for I did not 
fear being disturbed by visitors. There was plenty to do, 
but I was enthusiastic, and found also recreation in my 
many studies. 

It was in this atmosphere of music, art and literature that 
my next five and a half years were spent, and the delights 
of those student years can never be effaced from my memory. 

Perhaps to many of my readers the routine of a music 
students' life would be monotonous, and prove dull reading 
— the charm of it can only be fully realised and appreciated 
by the student himself — so I'll refrain from wearying you. 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 35 

Yet I do want to impress upon you that the Vie Boheme is 
not what it is usually thought to be by outsiders — loud, bois- 
terous, idle, and without thought of morality. Far from it. 
There is a simple childishness, gay and grave, and a warmth 
and unity of feeling seldom found in social circles. We 
learned to live and let live, to be guided by the heart rather 
than by cold calculation, and to divide our last penny cheer- 
fully with our friends. We had, one might say, one purse, 
and were happy. 

Our day's work over, we would gather in the Concert 
Halls, and listen to the works of great masters, played to us 
by great artists, and we were joyous and sad, yet refreshed 
and ready to go at our own little efiforts again, to work away 
each day hoping to get a little nearer to our ideals. Alas! 
how often has a sister student found a companion in tears, 
the music lying in shreds on the floor, and the little meagre 
German breakfast still untouched! The road to perfection 
and success are two distinct ones, and very hard and thorny 
at that, and there are days when one thinks one's strength 
will not stand the trial, and the little guiding light gleaming 
in the far distance seems shut ofif for ever. I have gone 
through such hours, yes, days, when I felt I should have to 
give everything up and become an ordinary mortal doing 
ordinary, spirit-killing things, and night after night I watered 
my pillow with tears of loneliness. 



CHAPTER IV. 



STUDENT DAYS AND TRAVELS. 



During the first of the five years I worked at the Royal 
Academy High School in Berlin my mother came to Europe, 
and in my holidays took me through the greater cities of 
the Old World. 

How intensely I enjoyed those happy holidays! 

My mother once again with me, my conscience telling of 
good work done, and rest well earned, and my whole being 
swelling in the artistic delight of mediaeval Florence, of an- 
cient Siena, of Rome — the most interesting place on earth — 
sunny Naples, and Venice, the dream-city of art and history! 

Italy, land of the dance and song, took my soul captive, 
and as the gladsome day's passed all too swiftly, and my 
heart grew glad as a child's on a summer's day, I learned 
more and more of the hidden meaning of the exquisite poetry 
of music and movement. At night, when the world was at 
rest and the moonbeams flooded my room, I danced for the 
joy that was in me, from sheer lightsomeness of heart. 

Or, perhaps we would visit some famous town crowded 
with art treasures and full of stirring incidents of great men 
and heroes of the ages. Or else we would make our way 
to the wee villages cradled in the mountain valleys of Swit- 
zerland or France, and the hush of the mountain snows fell 
on my spirit with a soothing touch, and calmed my soul to a 
sweet blessedness of rest. 

One of the most inspiring and delightful trips was to 
Florence. My stay in Florence would have been a memory 
landmark to me if only for the impression made by Botti- 
celli's wonderful picture, and the fact that as I stood before 
it, entranced by the rhythm and the flowing lines of the danc- 
ing graces, all my indefinite longings and vague inspirations 
crystallised into a distinct idea. Art is a method of expres- 
sion, the expression of feelings and thoughts through beauti- 
ful movements, shapes and sounds. To try to express in 
movement the emotions and thoughts stirred by melody, 



3S MY LIFE AND DANCING 

beautiful pictures and sculpture had become my ambition. 

But Florence is a very treasure store of beautiful things^ 
the Florence of Savonarola, the monk who tried to wake 
the conscience of mediaeval Italy, of Dante, of Michael An- 
gelo, Leonardo di Vinci, the splendid, if immoral, Medicis, 
and a host of others. My stay there was one long delight 
and a continual making the acquaintance with the works of 
3:reat masters of paintings, sculpture and architecture, in 
an atmosphere of Italian sky and Italian brilliant colouring, 
and with a consciousness of the pulse and throb of a joyous, 
sun-warmed people round about me. The sparkle of the sun 
seems in their veins as its kiss is on their faces. Their 
wonderful sense of colour is an instinct. They seem unable 
to help being picturesque. 

One scene lives* vividly in my memory. I had gone into 
the country and met a string of Italian women threading 
their way up from the banks of the Arno. They were bare- 
footed, and the copper bowls they carried on their beauti- 
fully poised heads with a rare, unconscious grace flamed red- 
gold in the sunlight. They bore themselves like goddesses 
on spring, elastic feet. Pale lilac and orange composed the 
colours of the dress of one woman. Coral earrings gave 
another splash of colour. Her dark hair rippled in curls over 
a low, sun-kissed forehead. Her daring eyes sparkled v/ith 
the sheer joy of life; her supple, lissom body was a thing of 
undulations and graceful curves. I just revelled in that pic- 
ture. Just as I think that I have learnt things from watching 
the sway of branches, the bend of grass blades before the 
breeze, the drift of thistledown, the flash and sparkle and 
dance of sunshine on rippling water, foam-crested mountain 
waves dancing a hurricane dance to wild storm music, or 
snowflakes that seemed to become an embodied spirit as 
they wreathed a fantastic measure to the song of a winter 
wind, so, perhaps, I was learning something, storing some- 
thing up for the future as those barefoot women filed past 
with the silent music of motion. 

Here, to me, was music, poetry, dancing; harmony all the 
more perfect because unconscious. 

It was a far cry from that picture on the Tuscan plain to 
the cabin of a storm-tossed liner, but I can quite well remem- 
ber that presently I found myself recalling how I had heard 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 39 

tlie pitterpatter of elfin, dancing feet in the splash of water 
against the cabin door, when my trunk and other things broke 
loose and I lay awake, my imagination changing, bobbing, jump- 
ing trunks, and boots and shoes, and other escaped prisoners, 
into dancing fairies and little goblins, and the biggest trunk o^" 
all into a kind of goblin fairy king with the slenderest and most 
agile legs imaginable. 

Those days in Florence were one long delight. Thinking of 
my student friends in BerHn. I often regretted that they 
were not with me to share my pleasures, my wanderings through 
the great galleries and palaces, the Uffizi, the academy, or in 
the coolness of the Duomo listening to and witnesisng some 
religious ceremony in a play of light and shadow, with censers 
swinging and clouding the air with heavy-scented incense, 
the colour of vestments and glitering cross, the flickering can- 
dles, the acolytes, the roll of majestic music, making powerful 
appeals to one^s senses ; or looking at the stone on which Dante 
was once wont to sit in the cool of the summer evening, dream- 
ing perhaps of Beatrice as he remembered her when a boy, 
in her flaming gown and mantle green and white veil. One 
does not require much imagination to conjure up ghosts in 
Florence. 

It was in the Palazzo degli Uffizi that I saw perhaps the 
greatest of all Botticelli's pictures, 'The Birth of Venus.'' 
and also, dripping from the sublime to the ridiculous, met one 
of my abominations in the shape of two people with blind eyr ~ 
and a guide-book. Most of us who have travelled are ac- 
quainted with the person with a guide-book. 

It is a most wonderful picture with its pale colours of early 
morning, and one feels the wind blowing about Venus as she 
stands there on the edge of the shell, a vision of love. Sight 
of it evoked again the longing to give expression in movement, 
in dance, to the feelings stirring in me, when a voice at my 
elbow : — 

"Hallo! What's this? Who's this by? What is the 
number ?" 

There they were with the guide-book, a man and a woman. 

And their almost first thought was, "What's the number?" 
They did not use their senses, the beauties of the wonderful 
canvas had no power to arrest them, hold them, and thrust 



40 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

out thoughts of who had painted it, and the number. The 
man fixed pince-nez stolidly on his nose, and instead of looking 
at Botticelli, read the guide-book intently, while his wife, close 
to his elbow, shared it with him. And, having read their guide- 
book, they went their way. They had mastered the probable 
date of the painting of the painter, and the mechanical fact that 
the figures were nearly life-size; but of the beauites of that 
supreme achievement of genius they knew— just nothing. Blind 
eyes ! 

The man's voice reached me again. 

"Hullo, who's this by? What's the number?" 

When I looked towards them, where they stood before a Fra 
Angelico, their eyes were glued to the book. They were study- 
ing it most intently, ramming dates and mechanical facts into 
their heads. That book might have been their Bible, and their 
salvation dependent on getting those facts off by heart. Blind 
eyes ! 

All the ensuing winter my thoughts were filled with pressing 
ideas. I dared hardly mention them to any one. I feared to 
be misunderstood, and a jeering remark would have hurt me 
dreadfully; so I kept my own counsel and let idea upon idea 
gather and grow in my brain quietl}^ and undisturbed by out- 
side counter influences until the day of days should come when 
I felt strong enough to present a logical conclusion to days of 
thought. 

Our next notable and influencing journey was to Milan, an 
other treasure-store, where we stayed some time. I was still 
studying and playing; but there were times when a feeling of 
being a prisoner would come over me at the piano. Music 
was still an intense delight to me ; but not all-sufficing. I would 
imagine rhythmic movements to whatever I might be playing. 
The trunks and boots and shoes had become dancing fairies ir 
my cabin on the liner, and now music would almost visualis' 
into rhythmic motion, shape, and pose. And round about me 
were the glories of sculpture and painting, the best of great 
geniuses, exercising a moving, great influence, stimulating 
thought and broadening conception in a hundred subtle ways. I 
had begun to take life seriously when T put up my hair and 
discarded short frocks. 

It was at Milan, in the refectory of Santa Maria delle Grazu 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 41 

that I saw another great masterpiece that left a lasting imprcb 
sion — Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Supper." The beauty and 
emotions portrayed in it by an inspired genius rise above de- 
facement and deplorable condition. But it is sad to think 
that Leonardo's own experiments in colours conspired against 
the durability of his masterpiece. The great Goethe has written 
of it : 'The artist represents the peaceful little band round 
the sacred table as thunderstruck by the Master's words — 'One of 
you shall betray Me.' They have been pronounced; the whole 
company is in dismay, while He Himself bows His head with 
downcast eyes. His whole attitude, the motion of His arms 
and hands, all seem to repeat with heavenly resignation, and 
His silence to confirm, the mournful words — Tt cannot be other- 
wise. One of you shall betray Me.' " 

I visited this little refectory day after day, and seemed never 
able to gather in all the beauty of this wondrous work, and my 
eyes never wearied of looking at it. 

It was these great works that filled my soul with longings 
indescribable ; I felt so happy in their presence, and peace 
reigned supreme in my soul. These days spent wandering 
amid such glorious and wondrous creations did much to crys- 
tallise and form my vague thoughts into a connecting chain, 
and I desired to return to Berlin to get to work. 

But my brain was dizzy with all I had seen of human hands' 
making, and I felt I must first hold counsel with Nature in its 
pure simplicity and grandeur. So we wandered to the Italian 
lakes, to broad Maggiore, winding Como, and Lugano beneath 
the shadows of the giant Monte Generoso. Here was quiet, 
and a great feast of colour. Intense skies, blut waters, island 
gardens, distant snow-capped mountains, purple hills, flooding 
sunshine. Golden-clustering laburnum, oleander groves grey 
against the vivid green of chestnut and walnut tree. Lilies of 
the valley, great patches of purple columbines, the pine lilies of 
San Bruno ! And the air charged with fragrance ! The cities 
had been wonderful; but here one drank in a sense of breadth 
and space and freedom, and turned from the works of man to 
the glories of Nature and her perfect harmonies. 

My heart delighted in returning this time to my cosy little 
study room in the fourth etage of one of Berlin West's com- 
fortable houses, for I knew what was going to mature there. 



42 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

and I rejoiced. I knew I could nevermore get away from 
these new ideas, and could hardly wait to get there again. To 
return to my friends always gave me pleasure unbounded, and 
now, too, it was almost Christmas, and I could not somehow 
picture there being such a Christmas in Italy as that to which I 
was going in Berlin. I could picture great ceremonies with pomp 
and circumstance, in domed churches, purple-mantled prelates, 
picturesque acolytes, much glittering of gold and winking of 
myriad candles ; but I could not picture the Christmas-tree, the 
homeliness, the mystery and excitement of presents, the singing 
of simple carols, and the delight of men and women not ashamed 
to be as children on Heiliger Abend. 

I was just looking forward to my Christmas and my Christ- 
mas-tree and my friends. The Renaissance had birth in 
Italy ; but neither the northern spirit of Christmas nor the 
Christmas-tree. 

From the quiet and stillness and expanse of the Italian lakes 
mto the Christmas excitement of Berlin. It was like a tonic. 
Good fellowship was in the frost-bitten air, and crisp snow, 
as was fitting, on the ground. Sturdy, stolid men, with re- 
laxed faces, carrying parcels, men who at another time of 
the year would refuse point-blank to do such a thing. And 
the touching side of Christmas — simple working-men carrying 
home a small Christmas-tree and presents for the Bescherung — 
the cost of pinching and saving. Many memories of that 
Christmas return to me. The crowded streets, the squeak of 
toys being hawked, and the snow swirling and dancing and 
wrapping round men and women like white-flecked draperies. 
Everyone seemed happy, excited, and content to be children, 
and yet again and again some face — that, perhaps of a big 
working-man, with a small bundle of presents in one hand 
and a little tree tucked under his other arm, destined to brin^ 
gladness and the spirit of Christmas, candle-lit, into his many- 
childrened home — would bring a lump into my thoat. 

In Germany Christmas Eve — Holy Evening, as they call it — 
is the night of the tree, the festival, and the Bescherung, or 
spread of presents— presents wrapped up and neatly tied with 
ribbon, kept profoundly secret, and arrayed round the base of 
the tree. 

I went out and bought my presents and my tree, bushy an.' 



MY LIFE AND DANCING ' 43 

broad at the base, sticking out prim and formally, and tapering 
finely. 

I am not in the least ashamed to admit the happiness I de 
rived from decorating my tree and anticipating the coming 
of my friends. I set a snowy cloth on a low table, and on 
this the tree. Over the branches I drew white wool and 
sprinkled it with silver frost. On the branches I set shor 
white candles. Round about the base I put my presents, white- 
papered and bound with red ribbon. And then I added r 
touch of colour to my white tree, a little cold till now, I took 
some lengths of narrow, red baby-ribbon — red for love — and 
mingled them with the white and frost-glitter. Then I set 
forth in simple dishes refreshment that included pfefferkuchen, 
niisse, and stolle. 

Outside were gathered my friends. They were beginning to 
sing "Stille Nacht." I took my stand beside my twinkling tree, 
the white candles spoiled by no other lights, and the folding 
doors of the room were opened. 

Twinkling candles, carols, presents, faces lit with goodwill 
and friendship, greetings, merry-making and laughter, with an 
under-current of those deeper emotions that affect the throat 
and the beat of the heart — I was happy! 



CHAPTER V. 

THE HUMAN BODY MY INSTRUMENT. 

The idea that had crystallised in Italy as I stood before 
Botticelli's "Primavera" was uppermost in my mind. As yet 
I had taken no one into my confidence — as I have a nature 
that dislikes to be influenced, perhaps because of lack of self- 
confidence, and I wanted to feel "fighting fit." Then I would 
not fear either individual or even public opinions and sug- 
gestions. Now I listen to and take from them what I see 
fit to take, otherwise go my own way, and this I have done 
from the beginning. I have been trained so from the time 
I can remember. My parents were to my mind very clever 
in that they never said "No" or "Yes" in the well known, all 
too domineering style of many parents. My questions were 
always cleverly answered, and where a decision was required 
in minor matters, important, however, in a child's mind, they 
invariably said, "Well, mamma or papa would do so, or would 
not, but you may do as you think best." Of course, a 
thoughtful child, or any child trained in this manner, would 
go off and really think the matter over, and arrive at some 
conclusion not so stupied either. 

All my life I have had opportunity in this way to act and 
judge for myself, and so in this new work I held court and 
heard the pros and cons of it all to myself, and drew my 
own conclusions, and wanted no interference from the out- 
side until I felt confident that it would not affect me other 
than to enable me to sift and get good out of it. 

Now, I found that my interest was more and more at- 
tracted to the subject of Physical Culture. I felt that a 
healthy, sound, well toned- instrument was the first great 
necessity for the carrying out of this great work. My body 
was my instrument and my thought ngw was to test and 
find what was lacking, then to work to remedy the neglected 
parts. 

It had always been my habit to do physical exercises every 
morning after my bath; not set, one-two-three-four, hands- 



46 MY LIFE AXD DAXCIXG 

above-your-head, out-in-front-of-you, down-b3^-your-side kind 
of exercises, but just as the spirit moved on. As soon as 
ph3^sical exercises become mechanical — a m.atter of one, two, 
three, and a stolid expression or one of phj^sical pain — their 
virtue is gone from my point of view. Body and mind should 
be en rapport. Even in such a seemingly prosaic thing as 
after bath exercises, the bod}^ should give expression to a 
thought. The better, the more poetic, or more musical the 
inspiration, the more graceful the physical expression. A 
drill sergeant is all ver}^ well for soldiers; dumb-bells and 
elastic exercisers for raisijig up lumps of muscles; but a 
woman who seeks grace of movement is best served when 
she strives to harmonise motion with inspiration, be it that 
of music, the graceful figure of some picture or statue that 
imagination has endowed with moving life, or memory of 
some nature picture, a wind rippled cornfield, or the dance 
of autumnal forest leaves. 

With such things as these for inspiration and stimulus, 
time does not count. There is a joy in them all. It is not a 
question of five minutes by the clock at one, two, three, four, 
heels together, hands above your head, out, down. One for- 
gets oneself, yet effort and the desire for perfection are there, 
the desire to give truer, more perfect expression to the inspi- 
ration, to attain the unattainable — perfection. All the drud- 
gery of formal practising and training is lacking. At the 
same time the bod^^ b}' an almost unconscious process, grows 
more and more responsive to inspiration, a more ready instru- 
ment of expression. I have never in my life practised with 
one eye on a clock and to the tick of an imaginary metro- 
nome, any more than when my thoughts turned towards fit- 
ting draperies I contemplated pink tights and a stiff skirt like 
an inverted tea saucer. 

And as I write this, I cannot help quoting Ruskin's beauti- 
ful words: ''Fix, then, in your mind . . . that 3^our art is 
to be the praise of something you love." He sa^^-s also, "As 
soon as the artist forgets his function of praise in that of imi- 
tation, his art is lost. His business is to give, by any means, 
however imperfect, the idea of a beautiful thing; not, by 
any means, however perfect, the realisation of an ugly one." 

Francois Delsarte's theories teach us that every fibre, every 
muscle, and every feeling should have its existence so well 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 47 

defined that at any moment it can actually assert itself. His 
teaching rests on the inseparability of body and spirit, which, 
united through interchange of effects, results in an harmoni- 
ous existence. 

For example, he compared the human being with a musical 
instrument. The back being the keyboard, the spinal column 
the keys, the various members and muscles the strings. The 
player of this instrument, the soul, which is designed to 
transpose the movements of the body into music. 

So I worked on, finding unspeakable joy from delving into 
any works on the subject that I could find. I felt I had a 
great, grand secret, and I guarded it jealousy. 

One day I remember well, looking back upon these happy 
days. There was a child, a little girl, daughter of a well- 
known American musical critic residing in Berlin, and I set 
myself to teach her to dance after my fashion, to dance me a 
story. Her name was Carla, and clever and beautiful she 
was, with fluffy golden curls and eyes of deepest blue shaded 
by long lashes, black as night. I loved this little girl with her 
heart full of beautiful pure impulse, and it was a joy to me to 
whisper a story into her dainty ear and bid her dance it to 
me. 

This time I told her of a little girl who wandered into the 
forest and, plucking a flower, blew through the frail stem 
a note of music. To her the elves • and spirits came wan- 
dering, and she danced with them until the moon had gone 
and left the woodland in shadow. When I had finished this 
simple story, I went away, telling her to think how she could 
repeat it all in silence. Then it came to me that I surely 
might so give unspoken eloquence to a music story that 
audiences would, at my will, come into the woods with me, 
and would feel sorrow or terror or gladness as I showed it. 
To set my own interpretation upon the meaning of a master 
and to convey that meaning to the accompaniment of the 
music was what I longed to do. 

Thus you see how day by day my work went on, from 
morning till night, and all the time I was ever thinking, ever 
trying, ever rejecting, ever accepting new influences. 



CHAPTER VL 



Aiy WEIMAR DAYS. 



The summer of 1901 I spent in delightful Weimar, as one 
of the disciples of, to me, the greatest living pianist, Ferruc- 
cio Busoni. It had been my keen desire to be directed in my 
musical studies by him, and so when I received his affirmative 
reply to my letter asking if I might attend his classes, I felt 
as though I could shout my joy from the house tops. 

At the invitation of the Grand Duke of Weimar he had 
taken Franz Liszt's place, and Weimar once more had its 
Meister Schule for piano playing. 

Old world Weimar, with its quiet squares, is rich in its 
associations with German art and literature, and its atmos- 
phere is very different from that of busy, up-to-date Berlin. 
Here the great giant of German literature, Goethe, lived fifty 
years of his life. Schiller came here towards the end of his 
days, at Goethe's invitation. Goethe's house in the Goethe 
Platz is the shrine of many pilgrims. In one room is the 
piano on which young Mendelssohn played. Kronach's great 
picture of the Crucifixion, in which he introduced the faces 
of Martin Luther, Melancthon, and Bugenhagen. hangs in the 
Stadt-Kirche. In Liszt's vine-covered house the pupil-room 
is the same as when the great master taught there. 

There was much for me to see and study at Weimar be- 
sides my music. Also I came in touch with a broader spirit 
of what I had best call Bohemian bon camaraderie than I 
had met in Berlin. It was the kind of Bohemianism that I 
frankly delighted in, though I may as well confess that it did 
not appeal in the same way to certain old-fashioned inhabi- 
tants, who had either never possessed youthful spirits, or had 
forgotten the days when they had. But of this more presently. 

The most delightful relations existed between Busoni and 
his pupils. To us he was something much more than a great 
master of his art. We really might have been his children, 
and when our work was done we seemed to share quite nat- 
urally in his family life, with his wife, the dearest of women. 



50 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

and his two beautiful children. And what a mixture! Ameri- 
can, Sotch, Canadian, Russian, Servian, Austrian, French, Ital- 
ian, and other nationalities. The German tong^ue was our Es- 
peranto. 

We devoted our mornings to hard study. Busoni was am 
inspiring master. On two afternoons in the week, Tuesday 
and Friday, we gathered at the Tempel Herrenhaus for an in- 
formal kind of concert. There was no fixed programme. But 
though there was a delightful spontaneity about these after- 
noons, we only gave of our very best. In fact, in one respect 
they were not unlike a Quakers' meeting, when only those who 
feel inspired rise to speak. But there the comparison ceases. 

We were really like a very large, happy family. On other 
afternoons, when lunch was done, we would go to Busoni's 
beautiful villa for afternoon coffee. No ceremony, no for- 
mality; we were sure of friendliness and simple welcome. 
Time had a way of skipping on these delightful afternoons, and 
we generally stayed to tea as well. At other times Busoni and 
his wife would come to us, or perhaps make an expedition to 
one of those open-air spots, beloved by Germans, and tak^ 
our coffee there. It might be to the beautiful lawn of th' 
Tempel Herrenhaus, or to the Belvedere Chateau. Delightful 
places abound around Weimar. Indeed, we loved our master for 
the kindly simple nature that went hand-in-hand with his won- 
derful brilliancy in art, and no one delighted more in our a 
fection and respect for him than his dear wife. 

My memories of those Weimar days are like a breath of 
clean, fresh air. This kind of personal intimacy between ma? 
ter and pupils is characteristic of German student life. Pro- 
fessors are not afraid that their influence will be lessened or 
their dignity abated by revealing themselves human. Some 
how, I cannot picture so easily an Oxford ^'don" unbending in 
the same way. And an Oxford "don" playing "Cat and Mouse" 
after dusk with his pupils ! Shades of dead and gone Vice- 
Chancellors ! 

Ought I to whisper it? I have played that game in th 
squares of Weimar with a band that included a professor and 
his wife. Worse still, certain prim and formal old ladie^ 
complained to the authorities, and the police were doubled in 



MY LIFE AND DANCING SI 

^certain quarters to prevent the possibility of any repetition of 
such a terrible offence ! 

We certainly did disregard some conventions. Another cause 
of complaint was our whistle. Instead of climbing up many 
stairs to a friends' room, we would whistle a two-noted, pecu- 
liar signal from the street. It saved time, and was part r 
the bon camaraderie that made those days delightful. Some- 
times as we wandered through the squares and streets, a Bo- 
hemian band of brothers and sisters, we would all link arms 
and take two short steps with one foot and a long one with 
the other, and so continue ''Hopla !" It was just glad spirit^ 
asserting themselves spontaneously, and if we did behave like 
children let loose, I for one have had no regrets since. 

Then we would have supper parties in our rooms, after whic^^ 
we would see one another home, a somewhat lengthy process, 
delayed by "Hopla" and '*Cat and Mouse." A quiet, moonlit 
square, a ring of us linked hand to hand, now closing in and 
shutting out the pursuer, now opening out to permit the pursued 
to dodge and thread a v/ay among us ; laughter, excitement 
and unfeigned happiness — ^that is my remembrance of "Cat and 
Mouse" as we played it till those prim, shocked inhabitants put 
the police on our wicked tracks. But, perhaps we had ker 
them awake! 

But those delightful, free-and-easy days of hard study ar 
bon camaraderie came to a close all too soon. 

The autumn of 1901 found me back in Berlin. I was con- 
tinuing to give rhythmic physical expression to my fancies and 
the inspiration of silent music or the memories of picture or 
nature; but I was still keeping my own confidence. My joy 
in trying to give expression to my idea seemed to make the idea 
grow, and soon it was dominating my thoughts. Perhaps of 
all the great painters whose works I have studied, Botticelli 
has influenced me the most. His lyrical imagination, his love 
of the wind and all things that the wind stirs, trees, draperies, 
floating hair, so wonderfully expressed in his paintings, and 
his pure love of the human form, never defiled b}^ a descent to 
meretricious art, had deeply impressed themselves upon me. 
But if he inspired pose in those formative days, I was thinking 
more of the Greek dancing girls when I turned my thoughts to 
my draperies. On those lines I fashioned my first dress. 



52 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

I had no doubts as to the Tightness and truth of my idea, 
but I did experience dark moments when I wondered if I were 
the fitting person to give it expression. 

I had made the acquaintance of many distinguished artistic 
and Hterary men and women in BerHn, and among these Marcel 
Remy, the Belgian composer, musical critic, and savant But 
as yet I did not know him well enough to count him a friend, 
deeply as I respected and admired his sparkling talents and his 
unerring, sensitive taste, and I little dreamed when I thought 
of mentioning my idea to him, that he would one day compose 
the music for 'The Vision of Salome." 



. CHAPTER VII. 

I have had many sorrows in my short Hfe, sorrows too great 
and deep to mention in this Httle volume, and they, I feel, have 
been the keynote to stirring my soul from its childish sleep and 
making my every fibre quiver in the softest wind of sentiment 
and my soul and spirit sigh for the truth of existence. 

An episode in my life has left its deep imprint upon my work, 
and caused me to throw myself deeper into my studies, thus 
influencing greatly the turn and development of my mind. 

Soon after the close of this episode in my life I had, as I 
have already mentioned, the extreme good fortune to meet, 
and soon to count as one of my friends, that very clever man. 
Marcel Remy. 

It was after a concert given by my old master and friend, 
Busoni, that I mentioned my ideas about dancing to Marc^ 
Remy, the Belgian composer and musical critic. This was ir 
Berlin, and Berlin does not lend itself, like Weimar, with it 
quiet, old-world squares, to ^Hopla" and "Cat and the Mouse." 
But the supper at the Co-operative that followed the concert, 
with Busoni and his wife for host and hostess, their more inti- 
mate friends gathered about them, art, literature, and music rep- 
resented, was delightfully free from the stiff, academic spirit 
which I confess to disliking most cordially. Spontaneity was 
the order of the evening. 

I spoke of my idea, my ambition — dancing as an art of 
poetical and musical expression — to Marcel Remy. But pleas ^ 
do not think that I was under the impression that I had giver 
birth to a new idea. It was — if not as old as the hills — ^old. 
There is an Attic vase, probably moulded 600 years or more 
before the Christian era. The ancient Greek writing upon i" 
says that the vase is to be given as a prize to the dancer who 
expresses joyousness most vividly. 

Marcel Remy was deeply interested at once. As well as 
being a musician, he was a savant, a Greek scholar. It was 
a happy inspiration to confide in him. The sculptor, the artist, 
and the man of learning range more widely in quest of subjects 



54 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

than the musician pure and simple. Remy spoke of dancing-, 
in the true Hellenic spirit, as a dead and forgotten art; of the 
unending possibiHties open to one who should endeavour to re- 
create a lost art of expression. His encouraging words were 
as fuel to fire. Very generously and whole-heartedly he of- 
fered to assist me in the matter of research. So I came to 
have the assistance of one who was not only scholar and critic, 
but artist to his finger-tips. 

After that I worked, worked, worked, harder than ever. Not 
drudgery, nor mechanical; but work, and very hard work at 
that. 

I cannot help smiling. Only a short while ago I received at 
the Palace Theatre a letter from one of my own sex. It 
was to the effect that as my hfe was just one round of pleasur- 
and applause and ease, and hers one of hard toil— cooking, 
mending and getting hot and growing weary over the w^asl' 
tub — it was only right that I, who made money with no mor 
exertion than a fluttering butterfly, should send to her, a rer' 
worker, a substantial sum of money. It rather reminded me 
of the story of the dentist who worte to a well-known actr 
asking for a couple of stalls, on the ground that, though Vsc'- 
being personally acquainted with the actor himself, he had the 
pleasure of extracting a couple of his brother's teeth. Anotb ^ 
of my correspondents wrote more laconically, but probably po'^ 
sessed by the same butterfly theory of my existence, and re- 
quested £30 — by return of post if possible. In fact, it was 
a demand rather than a request. But my correspondence is not 
all in this strain, and presently I shall return to the subject. I 
mention it here because a portion of it reveals the impression i 
some quarters that whatever success I may have achieved 1^' 
been obtained by a kind of floating, airy, effortless, butterfly 
kind of process. 

I have worked, and still continue to work and study, quite 
apart from the physical and mental strain of public performance 
very, very hard. 

The days that followed my conversation with Marcel Remv 
were days of research and experiment, delving among librar-' 
for old pictures, and studying pose on some ancient vase,, jar, or 
amphora in the museums, with Remy's great knowledge for my 
guide on what is best termed orchestric subjects. It was not 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 55 

a case of rapid achievement by any means. It was not sufficient 
to master a pose and its significance, and rest content with that; 
nothing was more difficult than to weave harmonious, musical 
connection between the different poses so that there should be 
no break, so that there should be nothing to mar the rhyhtmic 
sense of continuous harmonious expression. It was my en- 
deavour to disperse rhythm harmoniously to the tips of fingers 
and toes. 

There was no time now for other work. The die was cast. 
So I left the Royal High School of Music, with recommenda- 
tions from my masters, where it had been my privilege to meet 
and know, among others, that noble and great artist, Joseph 
Joachim, and the great composer, Johannes Brahms. I re- 
member how the former often listened to me play, when a 
student at the Academy, and patted me on the head in his ever 
kindly was when I had done well. 

So when working out my new ideas it was no wonder I longed 
for a word of recognition from him. 

He never repulsed me when I pressed upon him some of mv 
ideas. He would smile ever so sweetly and look long and silently 
at me, and I have often wondered just what he thought. When 
I returned after an extensive tour to Berlin to give i dance re- 
cital at my old Royal Academy — with all my old professors and 
Joachim as my judges — I felt a joy indescribable. I submitted 
my programme to him and he called me aside and said, "Little 
girl, you may dance anything you like, but dear child, pleas^ 
don't dance my Beethoven !" I understood him so well, for 
had he not given to the w^orld the very best interpretations of 
this glorious master's work and made them quite a part of 
himself? I crossed the "Moonlight Sonata" from my pro- 
gramme that night for his sake; I would not play upon the 
wrong chords in the heart of so great and good a man. 

Joachim later said to me, "You have done wonders in your 
Avork, my child; where did you get such ideas?" 

"You mean," I asked, "where did I conceive the idea of 
turning big themes into movement?" 

He nodded. 

"You remember I told you my thoughts when watching Sarah 
Bernhardt?" 

"Yes." 



56 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

"Then once when studying Boticelli's 'Spring/ a picture to 
me so vivid and beautiful that I could not gaze upon it without 
emotion, a thought impressed itself upon me'' — 

"If I could only bring these beautiful women to life again^ 
it would be something for my world to be proud of." 

Joachim looked me over from head to foot. And then said 
slowly, "And you have done it." 

I took his hand for the compliment was greater than I 
had hoped to hear from his lips. 

He said the words haltingly, but as if he meant them — 

"I do not pretend," I said, still holding his hand, "to be as 
beautiful as the pictured women yet, that would be hoping 
too much, but I have done the best I could at any rate. 

"Your best," were his final hearty words, "gives your 
friends hopes for. your future." 

So spoke great men to me, urging me onward until I felt 
that by the wishes that filled the air all about me, I should 
be helped on to the end of my ambitions,. 

Soon after the meeting with M. Remy and the divulging 
of my secret, and heart's desire to him, my dear mother re- 
turned to America. How I missed her no one will ever 
know. I was again alone to see after myself. If there is one 
thing I do love it is to be babied, and this my mother has 
done ever since I can remember. Now I had to shift for 
myself, and it did seem hard. 

My first dancing dress, the one I used for practising, was 
the gift of an American artist, a friend and painter to whom 
one day I told my aspirations. I hope I shall not appear dis- 
loyal to my sex when I say that my ambitions and aspira- 
tions have always seemed to me to have been better under- 
stood by men than women. I have received the greater 
artistic encouragement and understanding from them. And 
I do not think the reason is found in the words, sometimes 
accompanied by a little sneer, "Oh, yes, of course! You're a 
woman." It was one of my own sex, a nameless princess in 
a nameless city, who threatened to withdraw her patronage 
from a certain opera house if "a young person with naked 
feet" were allowed to dance there. 

There was a romance about my first dancing dress. It 
hailed from Greece, and was perhaps. 200 years old, having 
once been the undergarment of some Greek peasant maiden. 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 57 

It was of cotton, and as simple as it was clinging and grace- 
ful, and light as it was almost curiously warm. This I used 
for practising. But I was also studying dresses as well as 
pose in the museums and libraries. The Melpomene in the 
old museum, Berlin, furnished the model for the sandals that 
I subsequently wore in some of my religious numbers — num- 
bers that were more suited to a small than a large public 
audience. I used butter-cloth for the dresses that I designed 
and made myself, if "made" be the right word for what was 
really an arrangement of draperies and clasps and girdles, 
with an eye to soft folds and undulating lines. Very exqui- 
site folds may be obtained by damping the material, rolling 
it up tightly and keeping it thus for some while. 

So, with studying, designing, experimenting, and striving to 
attain continuous musical expression — spreading from the 
fountain-thought in a kind of wave over the body to finger- 
tips and toes — and rhythmical equilibrium, my time was very 
completely filled. 

Sometimes I would dance without music. At others Mar- 
cel Remy would come to my study. He possessed the gift 
of improvisation. I would obey my impulses and try to in- 
terpret whatever he might play. At other times I would try 
to give expression to some piece by Bach, Beethoven, Schu- 
bert, or Schumann. Art is long, and not the butterfly, effort- 
less business some people seem to think it is. It was in 1900 
that the idea crystallised before Botticeli's "Spring" in Flor- 
ence, and it was not until 1903 that I gave my first perform- 
ance in Vienna. 

It was at the Theatre Hall of the Royal Conservatoire of 
Music, Vienna. My feelings can be more easily imagined 
than described. Before me was a two hours' programme, 
the interpretation and orchestric expression in dance of 
pieces by Bach, Beethoven, Schubert, and Schumann, to the 
accompaniment partly of orchestra and partly of grand piano. 
And an audience composed of distinguished people, artists, 
musicians, and critics. 

Many thoughts crowded upon me; pictures jumped up hap- 
hazard before my eyes; memories of places I had visited: 
some scene — Italian women, barefoot, filling past, the copper 
bowls on their heads flashing in the sunshine; the memory 
of a storm, of water splashing with the sound of elfin fee' 



58 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

against a cabin door. It was a most composite, jumbled 
crowd of thoughts, many of them seemingly quite inconse- 
quent. 

And the great question of success or failure, of the differ- 
ence between being understood and misunderstood! 

I do not think in that brief eternity of time before my first 
public appearance that my craving and anxiety were ^or per- 
sonal success. But the art that I loved, at which I had 
worked with all the power in me, was about to be submitted 
to judgment. What if it should be misunderstood! 

That to me would have been bitterness itself. 

^ -^ ^ ^ 

Marcel Remy, whose great interest in my work meant so 
much to me, is now dead. Dead! I can never believe it. 
His body may rest in God's earth, but his soul lives, and I 
feel sure he knows of my progress and rejoices in it. I seem 
still to feel his superior influence. Often, when about to put 
into form some new ideas, I feel "Halt! that is not as M. 
Remy would have judged the theme! Think again!'* It is 
wonderful, the lasting influence upon the mind of a really 
superior intellect. 

Some of the rare old books and engravings he left me, 
and a number of manuscripts, beautiful songs which he com- 
posed and dedicated to me, are among my dearest treasures. 

Of this man, who was a staunch friend too, I shall always 
think in the deepest gratitude. I like to think that in his 
declining years it may have been a source of gratification to 
him to guide a young mind and open up in it an under- 
standing for the greater and more important problems of 
life. I rejoiced, too, in being his pupil, and would fain give 
to him all the thanks of a grateful heart. 



CHAPTER Vlll. 



STEPPING STONES. 



A few people have been veritable stepping-stones for me 
in my career. Since 1903 and my successful appearance in 
Vienna, with words of praise from such clever and acknowl- 
edged authorities as Br. Richard Walleschek, the brilliant 
author, Dr. Rudolf Lothar, and others, I turned, glowing 
cheeked and exulting, my face towards Brussels. Here it 
was a very great good fortune that befell me when I met Mr. 
Schlesinger, the President of the Cercle Artistique, and Mr. 
Charles Castermans and Mr. Goethals — men of influence and 
friends of Mr. Remy. These people proved not only solid 
stepping-stones to fame for me but I won them as friends, 
and their advice was of unmistakable importance to my ca- 
reer. I have, too, to speak of Natalie Townsend, wife of 
Laurence Townsend, at that time the Ambassador of the 
United States in Brussels. This charming, extremely clever 
woman — she is the composer of many delightful songs — gave 
me her protection. Through her, whose mental activity in- 
terested me greatly, I made my successful public appearance 
in Brussels and won the applause and understanding of the 
artistic world of that city. Through Mr. du Chastain, hommes 
des lettres, I met little Mdlle. Bernard, a literary lady of 
eighty-one, with white, smoothly arranged hair, whose 
"salon," the last of its kind, is renowned for its high intellec- 
tual tone, and is frequented by the highest in the land. She 
gave me many encouraging words. "I cannot but feel the 
purity and refinement in your portrayals,'* she said, "and 
look forward to the day when your efforts will be univer- 
sally acknowledged and treated with the reverence due them 
and with which they are given." This, from this world-ex- 
perienced dear little woman, made my heart beat with J03'. 
and I resolved then and there, however long it might take 
me, to try to reach the heights she had looked up to for me. 
I may not have done so yet. but, God helping, I will!" 

Eugen Ysaye and Caesar Tompson and his adorable wife 



60 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

gave me, too, many a word of bright encouragement during 
my less enviable days, and it seems to me now that had I not 
had the blessed good fortune to meet and personally know 
all those brilliant people, I might have fallen, tired and foot- 
sore, by the wayside. For, as I once before said, the Road 
to Completion of a Heart's-desire and to Fame, is long and 
full of stumbling stones, and all uphill. 

My short public career, begun in 1903, has taken me far. 
I have appeared in many German cities, toured Switzerland 
and Austria Hungary, and even in Belgrade I gave four re- 
citals. Budapest was very novel, and there I had a glimpse 
of a gaiety unknown in more northern cities, and of enthus- 
iasm born in a minute! What a nation and what a sense of 
rhythm! Back in Munich the very air seemed heavier, 
slower! 

It was in Munich that I received my first and only rebuff 
of a serious nature. I had an engagement to appear at the 
Schauspi^lh?i:s in a series of performances of my interpreta- 
tions of Music, and Salome. The censur had given me its 
blessing, and all seemed satisfied, when suddenly a "Verbot" 
from the Bavarian Government was issued against me! It 
proved to be the result of a political policy for the preserva- 
tion of the public morals! A club of old men had petitioned 
Herr von Halden to issue this ^^Verbot" and, being close to 
the election time, the request was granted, although the 
worthy gentleman admitted that he had not seen my dancing, 
and could only judge from what the club members who had 
seen it reported. 

Otto Julius Beerbaum, one of Germany's cleverest and 
most widely known authors, defended me and my art in a 
feuilleton in the Berlin Tageblatt of April, 1907, most mag- 
nanimously, for which I thank him in grateful appreciation. 
In spite of petitions sent in by the famous Prof. Franz Stuck, 
and others who were keenly interested in my productions, 
Herr von Halden refused to withdraw his decision against 
"Salome," and only through subscriptions was it possible to 
present this number to the Munich public. Needless to say, 
the subscription evenings were perhaps more successful than 
a regular one would have been — and why? Because my audi- 
ence was a purely artistic and intellectual one. 

Paris was the scene of my next engagement. I had longed 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 61 

to visit Paris and its wonders, and the train seemed never 
to get there. 

At last v^e were spinning from the station through traffic- 
crowded streets. I don't think, though, it impressed me as I 
had dreamed it would. I took up my abode in a nice little 
hotel near the Opera — Hotel de Londres et New York — and, 
although all alone, felt quite happy and comfortable. My 
chief interest was naturally centred in the glories of the 
Louvre, and here I wandered for hours at a time until I 
thought I would drop and surely never be able to dance in 
the evening. 

This was May, 1907, and the following September found me 
in Marienbad awaiting the command to appear before the 
King of England. 

While in Paris I met Madame Yvette Guilbert, whose 
unique talent has made her popular and esteemed the wide 
world over. I gladly complied with her request to dance at a 
charity matinee which she was organising at the Theatre 
Sarah Bernhardt. Later I felt that it was as if I had cast my 
bread upon the waters, and it had been returned to me after 
many days, for it was through the generous efforts of this 
great artiste and her husband, Dr. Schiller, that I was enabled 
to dance for His Majesty. 

An introduction to the Princess Murat and through her to 
Mrs. Hall-Walker, further paved the way for me, and I might 
say, too, with roses, for a few days afterwards, I was sum- 
moned to dance before King Edward, and I remember that 
it was with fear and trembling that I began my work, al- 
though when in the midst of any of my dances, I am seldom 
cognisant of any personality near. But I think I should be 
forgiven if, that once, the thought of England's King watch- 
ing me gravely, influenced me and, afterwards I realised, 
favourably. I think it was the happiest moment of my life 
when he took my hand with his calm great dignity and told 
me he considered my art a beautiful one and my dances wor- 
thy of the word classical. 

Before I went away Mrs. Hall-Walker whispered to me:— * 

"His Majesty w^as so pleased with you that if you go to 
London perhaps you will have the good fortune to appeal 
before the Queen too.'' 

**Oh! Do you really think so?" I cried, and my emotion 



62 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

was so genuine that tears gathered slowly in Mrs. Hall- 
Walker's beautiful eyes. "Truly I have not lived, struggled 
and suffered over my work in vain.'' 

''So I had cast my bread, had I not? For had I not re- 
sponded to Madame Guilbert's call in Paris and thus made 
her happy, I should probably not have been entertained by 
Mrs. Hall-Walker, and thus my precious dream would not 
have been realised. A hard busy year successfully ended, I 
felt I had now earned a holiday, and happy and full of new* 
enthusiasm took the first train that would bring me to my 
friends. Baron de Tscharner and his dear wife, Marthe, in 
their lovely home, ''Morillon," near Berne. 

A more delightful three weeks could not be imagined, and 
it was with genuine regret that I bade them adieu just two 
days before I had to start my Winter Season, 1907-8, which, 
now that it is over, after touching Prague, Hamburg, Berlin, 
and London, I can truthfully say was a success from be- 
ginning to end. 

By no means, though, imagine that all the between times 
were filled with good fortune. Far from it. A necessary evil 
in the life of an artist seems to be the theatrical agent. Alas, 
however, my dealings with these have not been of the rosiest. 
I have had several experiences rather interesting and very 
typical of the way in which young artists are taken ad- 
vantage of. It was an eye-opener to me. yet it has not even 
now taught me to be less trusting. This agent — Concert 
Agent S. of Berlin — offered me a contract for Hanover, which, 
however, never materialised other than in letters and verba! 
conversations. I objected strongly to the conditions of the 
same, and refused to accept unless my terms were agreed to. 
Although this was the case, he posed as having full power 
to net for me, and proceeded to arrange with the "Directoire" 
for the preliminary announcements of the forthcoming "dance 
recital." 

I knew nothing of this, and, just two or three days before 
the date set by him for my appearance, I received a hurried 
message asking when I would leave for Hanover! I was 
more than astonished, and after a lengthy discussion he told 
me that in order to get the guarantee I demanded, he him- 
self had used a "Notliige" to the Hanover director, i. e., that 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 63 

he, Agent S , would pay half out of his own pocket if the 

director would give the other half. 

"Are you prepared to carry out your promise to the direc- 
tor?" 

He laughed rudely, and said, "Oh, no!" 

Naturally, I felt something was very out of order, and im- 
mediately telegraphed to Hanover that I would not come, and 
they were not to expect me. This caused no little excitement, 
and before many days had passed I had a letter from the 

agent S demanding that I should pay the sum of about 

500 marks, expenses in which the preparation for my "Gast 
Spiel" had involved them, by return post. Naive! 

Of course I didn't send 500 marks by return post. Shortly 
afterwards I was summoned to court. The Hanover director 
was suing me! 

I needed but to tell the judge the story to have his sympa- 
thy. But before the case ended the Agent S had sworn 

falsely, and it came to light that the theatre had offered, by 
half, better conditions than I had demanded through mv 
agent! The agent had kept this a secret, and succeeded in 
making me believe that the half only of what I had demanded 
had been offered or could be obtained. So, you see, the said 
agent, besides working for his ten per cent., also wanted to 
cheat me out of two-thirds of my rightful gain. Needless 
to say, I won the case, and now the Concert Agency of Han- 
over is suing Agent S for the amount! I hope they too 

will win. 

He evidently thought that, matters being in such an ad- 
vanced stage at Hanover, I should be influenced, and give in 
to his terms rather than disappoint the public. 

Another type — a big, burly, blustering, conceited German, 
who, having been unable to get along in his own country, 
left for England and lived his peculiar life in London and 
in the suburbs for seven years, together with his very ob- 
noxious wife, a young, but hard, shrewd, Hungarian Jewess. 

Another S . It almost makes me feel suspicious of agents 

whose names begin with S. But that would be unjust. 

This German couple were most amusing. They grew posi- 
tively angry, and flew into a rage, when one recognised them 
as German. "We are English." My! but outward appear- 
ance and then the accent told the sad, sad tale! 



64 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

This man was like an overgrown baby elephant in many 
ways. He had a red moon face, sort of an apology for a nose, 
and two watery blue eyes that were never quiet. She dark 
as night, and with a bitter, bitter tongue. A well-matched 
pair; but she had the reins in her hand! Before the con- 
tract was signed, glorious sunshine and roses — after, thunder 
clouds and hail storms! For nine months life was for me an 
utter misery. To be in the hands of such inhuman people 
was worse than words can describe, for they rejected no 
means to force their views on me, even trying to make me 
believe I was mad — yes, raving mad. It came about in this 
way: Once, when through his vulgar mode of reclame, we 
met with a partial failure, they tried to make me believe I 
was doomed, and could never start again unless they felt 
inclined to help me; and to enable them to do so they tried 
to force me almost by laying hands on me, to sign a contract 
not to marry for the duration of the existing contract and its 
two prolongations, i. e., for five years. As they knew mar- 
riage would make void any contract, they wanted to be sure 
of their booty. Not being able to force me, they flew at me 
with the question — 

*'Do you know what they say of you?" 

"No, but perhaps it would be interesting to know. You seem 
so absurdly excited about something," I answered. 

"Well," they said, and this in a weird, theatrical whisper, "you 
are mad, raving mad. We ought to have you put into an 
asylum." 

This struck me merely as amusing, so I kept as quiet and 
cool as the mountain lakes and invited his rage, whilst his wife, 
with clenched hands and frenzied expression, flew at me, say- 
ing:— 

"I should like to strangle you !" 

"Why don't you?" I smilingly replied. 

This was just one month before this adventurous pair broke 
the then existing contract with me, in that they ran away with 
my money at the close of my very successful Paris engage- 
ment. A good large sum, too, of four figures. I had been 
foolish, and had allowed him to collect it at the office for me 
upon the condition that he handed it over, less his commission, 
within twenty-four hours. The twenty-four hours are still 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 65 

pending. That was May, 1907. Instead, I received a letter, 
saying, "When you get this, I'll be in Geneva." Voila ! Thank 
God, though, I was free again, and my future bright, so let the 
thief have the money. 

Another time, two women — one well known in the theatrical 
profession, and to the world too — cheated me out of my right- 
fully due money, and now say, "If you think we owe you money, 
go legally to work to get it," And this sentence, uttered by 
the shrewder of the two, was accompanied by a smile verging 
on a sneer, while her hands, as usual, ungloved — we had met 
again after one year at the home of a mutual acquaintance in 
Paris, and were now standing waiting for a cab — were stuffed 
into the outside pockets of her very mannish-looking coat. But 
it seems to be the principle of the two women not to pay debts, 
unless positively cornered ! I believe their hotel bills in Mar- 
seilles are still owing, and that was two years ago exactly! 



CHAPTER IX. 



CRITICISMS AND LETTERS. 



As I write the thought comes into my head to tell of the 
different impressions my dances have made, and the resulting 
criticism. 

One of the objections I have encountered and one that I 
would love to overcome, is that of kind Archdeacon Sinclair. 
Although he has not seen my portrayal, he was quite shocked 
at the thought of dragging Salome from the pages of the Bible 
and flaunting her crime before the public. He seemed to think 
the use of the head of John the Baptist, the forerunner of our 
Saviour, was irreverent and unnecessary. Accordingly, one 
afternoon I went to see him at the Chapter House and I shall 
never forget his kindness and courtesy. His gravity and dig- 
nity impressed me greatly. I immediately realised that if I 
could only impress him with the genuineness of my work, to 
say nothing of converting him to my idea of the dance, I should 
be more than satisfied. *'I am pleased to see you," he said, and 
I bowed my thanks as gravely as he had spoken. 

Appreciating that his kindness was great in seeing me at all, 
I did not w^aste time by explaining much of the preliminaries. 

"1 hear that you object to my 'Vision of Salome.' I have 
come, knowing you would be just enough to tell me why." 

"So I will, and do not for a moment think that I have at 
any time said that your work is not artistic, for I am sure 
from all I hear and have read that it is, and from your man- 
ner I should judge both you and your work quite serious, but," 
he continued, ''I feel there are Christians in my flock who may 
be repulsed at the thought of Christ's forerunner being made 
the subject of a scene for the stage. Or, for that matter, any 
Biblical story being put on the stage. I felt it my duty to 
pass this criticism upon this one number of your programme." 

I explained my views and he listened so kindly that it wou] ' 
have been an extreme pleasure to me to have given in to his 
way of thinking immediately, had it been in my power to do so. 



68 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

But we parted friends — good friends, and I am happy — as happy 
almost as though his thoughts were in absolute accordance with 
my own on this subject. Not long afterwards I had the great 
pleasure of attending service at beautiful St. Paul's, and of 
being, together with my parents, his guests at the Chapter House 
to tea, and then I met his charming sister and many of his 
dearest friends. 

I have received numberless letters from the great to the low 
in your land, dear reader, and I can truthfully say that not 
one in a hundred has ever been other than full of appreciation 
of my efforts. Appreciation, well meant suggestions and criti- 
cisms, but always kind. Numerous begging letters, too, reacr 
me, with every post. Each writer seems to think he or she 
alone is asking my assistance — would I could help all the really 
needy ones, but, believe me, it would be impossible. It is 
curious they should call upon me, a stranger in their city, term- 
ing me as "the only one in the whole world I can call upon." 
London is so full of charities, more than any other city I 
know of. Surely, many of my letter writers would be assisted 
if they would lay their troubles as plainly before these good 
people as they do before me. 

The one letter out of every hundred has always been an 
anonymous one and, perforce, a nasty one. However, these hav 
never had the effect upon me the writers intended them to hav 
as, to me, only those who feel they can defend their stand if 
drawn into controversy, and be true to their conviction, are 
worthy of consideration. An anonymous letter writer is, to 
my mind, the low^est type of a coward, and therefore wholly 
beneath my notice. 

Here is a typical begging letter :— 

June 18th, 1908. 
Dear Madam,— I am in such desperate need of £30 to keep 
my home together, will you give it to me on just the chance 
that I may be able to return it to you in three months from 
now? If you will give an address, I am sure I can. My rea- 
sons are many for writing to you, but I cannot explain them. 
Would you call and see me, if at all possible, or may I see you? 
Yours sincerely, 

I. H. B. 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 69 

Then, ag'ain, all the "dearest pets," moneys, parrots ; in short, 
all sorts of animals, have been urged on me for sale by thei- 
fond possessors. A snake charmer even conceived the idea of 
my perhaps caring for his snakes, 

March 10th, 1908. 
Dear Miss Allan, — I am writing you to know whether you 
have ever thought of using snakes or pythons as an adjunct 
to your Oriental dances. You need not necessarily come in 
contact with them yourself, so there would not be the smallest 
danger. If you are at all interested in the idea, I should be 
pleased to discuss the matter with you, when we might come to 
some arrangement. I would undertake to manage the snakes, 
as I have been used to handling them. I have had the idea in 
my mind but have never thought of carrying it out before. It 
would certainly make a unique background for a dance.. 

Yours truly, 

R. H. 

But I have many compensations for my efforts and take 
pleasure in giving my reader a few letters of commendation and 
appreciation. A clergyman remembers me on August 29t- 
with the following lines : — • 

August 29th. Beheading of S. John Baptist. 
"Whosoever will lose his life for My sake shall find it." The 
commemoration of the beheading of S. John Baptist to-day, 
made me remember you and constrains me to thank you f^ 
the pleasure and inspiration that your perfect gift has offered 
to me — and to so many others." 

Another of London's Church dignitaries writes me : — 

June 24th, 1908. 

Madam, — ^In your wonderful dances this evening I have seen 
poems of motion more beautiful and entrancing than anything 
else I have ever beheld. I am a country clergj^man who lives 
among beautiful things, and loves beautiful things; so this mus' 
be my apology for writing to you. 

I know that some people have acted in a way that must have 



70 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

caused you pain, and so I write to tell you that the Rector o.* 
an English Parish, far away from towns, will always thin 
of you as one who has made the beautiful w^orld more beautiful 
and given pure joy to others. I leave London on Friday, but 
great hope to see you dance before I go, for I have never seen 
such dancing as yours, and it is the only dancing I greatly care 
to see again. 



Still another, and one known and honoured by almost ever 
Churchman in London, 

August 7th, 1908. 

Dear Miss Allan, — I beg to thank you for your thoughtful 
reply; alas, I fear the artistic eye is lacking in many of us. 

St. John the Baptist is a sort of patron Saint to mission- 
spirited folk, and his martyrdom moves the depths of our being'. 
Oberammergau is not allowed in England, and if you knew the 
deep religious fervour of its peasants, you would understand 
why they will not perform away from their native surround- 
ings. 

I rejoice in your high ideals and pray that you may ever b 
protected from what would lower them. 
Sincerely yours. 



Then a tiny girlie tells me, in her own little way: 

My Dear Miss Maud Allan, — Mother took me to sea you 
Dane and I think you Dane most beautiful and I Should like 
to sea you agane and I Do an eastern Dane it is like one of 
the Dances you do and you a long Dres and a gold crown and 
gold langlers and I am 8 years old and I am 9 in octobes and 
I hope I will be able to sea you Dane a gane and good by with 

love from Queenie H , and I hope you will under stand 

my wrighting, x x x x x x. 

One of your greatest sculptors whose works I have always 
admired wrote me the following kind letter: 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 71 

July 8th, 1908. 
To Miss Maud Allan, 

As one who has studied Greek Art for forty years, and more 
especially the Art of sculpture, I hope that you will permit me 
to express what great delight your performance of Classical 
Dances has given this afternoon. I am unable to resist the 
impulse to write and thank you for the exquisite pleasure, which 
the greatest art alone can give. 

I had heard much praise from a brother Academician, but 
you have surpassed it. You have, I think, the proud position 
of being the greatest living exponent of Greek Art. 
In all sincerity yours, 

R. T. 

Is it any wonder I feel happy? It is my one ambition to be- 
come from day to day more perfect in the art I have chosen, 
and such words of praise as the above will help and guide me. 

Still another very charming and sincere letter reached me 
on 

July 16th, 1908. 

Dear Madam, — I should be ungrateful if I did not try to 
express my appreciation of thy art. 

I am a Quaker and had never before visited a theatre, but 
from my early years I have been devoted to Greek Art — as 
when working all day in the British Museum library I used 
ever to turn for refreshment to the Parthenon Marbles. So 
after reading thy article in the London Magazine I came to see 
thee and certainly thou reached my ideal, which is saying much — 
the joy of thy Spring dance conveyed itself in a way that aston- 
ished me. I had expected to be charmed, but I may add as an 
unlooked for result, that a trouble I had had with bad thoughts 
and ugly imaginations has disappeared since seeing thee. 

As the devil could not stay in the presence of our Lord, so 
no bad thought can stand before a good woman, if she had the 
power of expressing her nature. Thy art gives thee this power 
in an unequalled degree. One is impressed just as one is by 
Greek sculpture, only that a living being is vastly more expressive 
than marble. When as a tour de force thou shows Salome, I 
cannot doubt that I was still more impressed by thy own char- 
acter — thy rendering — for whatever else an artist depicts he 



n MY LIFE AND DANCING 

depicts himself. How can a man be concealed ! says Emerson^, 
and having this great gift of expression mayest thou ever faith- 
fully guard the God Whose temple thou art. How shall they 
worship Her whom they have not seen and how shall they see 
without an artist? 

A woman is to a man the shrine where the Higehst is visibly 
manifested, and her beauty of form when expressing beauty 
within, can drive the evil out of him quicker than anything else 
in the world — excepting love itself. When in the Greek story,. 
Hera appeared to Jason and Pallas to Perseus, we cannot sup- 
pose that they impaired their power by superfluous attire. And 
this perception of clothing as a hindrance was, I believe, na 
mere survival from the world's youth, but a special gift to the 
Greek's and prophetic of what mankind will eventually arrive 
at. 

The place where one first sees a woman counts for something. 
For me it was by a lake in the high Alps, in whose dark 
water she and the dazzling snow of the mountain were mir- 
rored. I had almost a fear of her, but she had none of me, 
and looking round on the solitary rocks she said she loved to 
be naked. Like Wordsworth's Lucy, my wife, though brought 
up as a Puritan, was nature's child, and as such and as an 
artist, would have been delighted with thee. 

The hearts of men that fondly here admire fair seeming 
shows, may lift themselves up higher and learn to love with 
zealous duty the eternal fountain of that heavenly beauty. 
Thine sincerely, 



Lastly, I give to your notice an extremely illumined letter and 
one which interested me greatly : 

June 25th, 1908. 
Madam, — I am so much struck by the power and passion you 
display in your ''Vision of Salome" that I am ventuirng to en- 
close a few notes on the historical personage which may or may 
not be of use to you. I have seen you more than once, and 
each time I have been perplexed as to the meaning of the Dance. 
You seem to interpret it as the triumph of the wildest passion, 
the intoxication of the power of beauty, revulsion at the crime 



MY LIFE AND DA2nCING 73 

and fascination for the ghastly evidence of it. In this you por- 
tray the Salome of opera, but my studies have, aided by youf 
performance, led me to understand the Salome of History. 

Possibly you may know what I am trying to explain, but I 
think I can put some parts of the story in a new light. 

The family of Herod was one of the most remarkable in anti- 
quity. They numbered many men of genius and all the women 
we know of were remarkably gifted with brain and beauty. De- 
spite the Biblical notices (very scanty) and the artistic repre- 
sentation of the Herods, there were two conspicuous features 
in the entire race — (1) deep affection liable to be succeeded 
•by fits of hatred and generally remorse; (2) a certain magna- 
nimity. Herod the great showed this later in his manly 
speech to Augustus after the battle of Actium ; so did his great 
grand-daughter Bernice, when she risked her life to save the 
Jews from massacre. So did Herodias, when her husband 
received sentence of banishment from the Emperor, and she 
was pardoned. She said, "Thou indeed, O Emperor ! actest 
after a magnificent manner and as becomest thyself in that 
which thou offeredst me ; but the kindest which I have for my- 
husband hinders me from partaking of the favour of thy gift; 
for it is not just that I who have been a partner in his pros- 
perity should forsake him in his misfortunes." For this she 
was sent penniless into exile. They were a wicked race, but 
they never lacked a certain grandeur. Even Heridos, the un- 
faithful wife of her first husband, could prove loyal to the man 
she loved. Now Salome was her daughter, and, according to 
one reading of St. Mark ( ? adopted) of Herod, before whom 
she danced. She was his heiress (he had no son) and his 
promise to give her what she wished was not unnatural. In 
fact, I believe that St. Mark's story is genuine history. Let 
me just set it before you. Herod arrested John, but was at- 
tracted by his teaching; he kept him in prison to have his life. 
He often, however, conferred with him and was much perplexed 
what to do (this is the correct rendering). That is, he was 
uncertain whether he would dismiss Herodias and take back his 
lawful wife or not. This would have meant ruin to Salome's 
mother. Now what happened is capable of a twofold explana- 
tion. 

Either Salome was a child. The little Princess danced and 



74 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

so delighted her adopted father that he bade her ask a favour. 
For this case the traged}^ of the Baptist dying at the request of 
a child who hardly knew what it meant is indeed a terrible one 
and the name "Vision" is an apt one, as Salome may see as a 
woman the part she enacted as a child. 

Or, Salome consented to dance to save her mother when she 
was a grown woman. In this case it was an act of heroism and 
there v/ould be a mingling of shame at the Princess thus con- 
descending, the purpose shown in the intensity of the barbaric 
dance the triumph of her beauty, terror at the crime, madness 
and collapse. 

This you portray in your wonderful performance. In the 
opera I believe, and certainly in Oscar Wilde's play, Herod is 
represented as a lustful tyrant, and Salome as enamoured of 
the Baptist, but the story as we have it is in a far nobler 
ke}^ 

Pray, do not think that I wnsh to suggest improvements. Your 
genius alone must be your guide. But every notice of you I 
have read describes you as a student, and my sole excuse in 
writing is to put before you a side you may have overlooked, 
namely, that the possibilities of the true story are far better for 
a tragic presentation of the dance than the operatic version, which 
is, I am bound to say, in a measure justified by the interpretation 
put upon the passage in St. Mark's by all the commentators. 
But I must not weary you with details, even if you have troubled 
to read thus far. My only excuse for troubling you is my ad- 
miration for the artistic perfection of your work. 
Yours faithfully, 

Dr. . 

So, dear reader, those who have writen me and criticised me in 
a spirit of friendliness and otherwise, I say to them all, I have 
not taken offence; for, as the leaves of the forest differ one 
from the other, so human minds, individual and critical, must 
look upon every question in life as each conscience and soul 
dictates. And for all the beautiful letters of praise and appre- 
ciation for my humble efforts to revive an Art — beautiful in its 
origin — and for hundreds of years lost to us, I thank the writers 
one and all most gratefully. 



^e^ 



' , CHAPTER X. 

A WORD ABOUT WOMEN. 

Another letter interested me sincerely. It was intended 
to be a reply to my remark, ''Women should influence rather 
than dictate." It read as follows: 

"Dear Madam, — In the interesting account you wrote for 
the Daily Mail of your impressions of England, you say, 'I 
have been to the House of Commons, but not as a Suffragette, 
as I think a woman should influence rather than dictate.' May 
I, as one of the militant suffragists, explain that our policy 
is not to dictate but to fulfil our duties and responsibilities 
in the world in which we find ourselves? At the present time 
we are not allowed to do this. We have to live under and 
obey laws in which we have had no voice, and many of these 
laws are most unfair to women, and some of us feel this 
keenly, not for ourselves but for others. The divorce laws, 
the laws relating to children, and the unprotected lives of 
young girls. (In this country the age of consent is only six- 
teen. A girl at that age is a mere child.) We are taxed, yet 
not allowed to say at all how the money is to be spent. All 
through life women are being unfairly exploited and are re- 
fused the only weapon left in modern civilisations — that of 
the vote. We want to take our share in these duties, and in 
no way to dictate to the men; only to stop them dictating 
to us. 

You are too busy, I expect, to come to the oflice to hear 
for yourself. We are at home every Thursday afternoon, or 
at other times by appointment. 

"I am sorry I have not seen your dancing, but this work 
absorbs nearly all my time, or I should certainly have come, 
as I am very fond of dancing and watching it. 

"Yours faithfully, 

"E. H. M.'* 

It is with some little diffidence — quite a different thing from 
reluctance — that I set out my views on certain questions con- 



16 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

nected with my sex. Although I have thought over them 
deeply and often, I 5^et rather shrink from obtruding them 
upon the notice of a public who have been so kind to me 
when, in the exercise of my art, I have endeavoured to depict 
emotions excited by beautiful music. 

As regards the question of votes for women, I believe that 
a woman can do more from an elevated position in the world 
of art, by bringing all that makes home beautiful into her 
husband's and children's lives, than she could by casting a 
dozen votes before the time is ready. However, I do not 
want to take up my small remaining space to discuss a ques- 
tion that might fill volumes, and then be only half thrashed 
out. I suppose every woman has to make her own bed, and 
as she makes it, so will she have to lie upon it. I am glad I 
don't have to sleep on beds of other people's making, es- 
pecially our modern English Suffragettes. I should be a very 
unhappy girl. Even the above letter, with its praise at the 
end, has not convinced me that the vote is at present neces- 
sar}^ 

Not for anything in the world would I have my anxious 
suffragist sister think that I do not believe in women being 
as highly educated as men are, for I do. I don't believe it is 
possible for a woman or a man to have too much education 
and refinement, which, b3^ the way, is the very essence of 
education as I look upon it. But breaking windows and 
throwing stones will not bring a woman what she wants and 
needs, for, just as surely as the colleges were opened to a 
woman, so will the ballot be given her when she is ready to 
receive it. 

Women should beware that they do not pay too much 
attention to mere instruction and yet pass by the demands of 
the real and truer education. 

For some time I have been keenly interested in the ques- 
tion of woman's education, being strongly of opinion that 
there should be no difference at all between the sexes in this 
respect. I have no desire to dabble in psychology and discuss 
whether there is or is not any basic difference between the 
male and female intellect. If there is such a difference, it 
will be manifested rather in the creative and originative facul- 
ties than in the acquisitive. Where study is concerned, actual 
results have shown that, even with the lirnitations imposed 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 11 

upon woman, she can hold her own. 

For a woman is a human being, and has an absolute right 
to the fullest development of her mental faculties. All the 
treasures of science and literature should be open to her ex- 
actly as to her brother. Whatever advantage he gains by 
the highest education, she gains also; and whether one con- 
siders her as an independent unit or as the companion and 
comrade of man, nothing but benefit to the whole human race 
can accrue from the mental cultivation of woman. Nothing 
but harm and arrested development can come from treating 
the education of one-half the human race as relatively unim- 
portant. 

It is because her education has been neglected, rather than 
because of any natural difference, that woman has, for so 
many, become accepted as intellectually inferior to man. Our 
University records, since women have been admitted to their 
studies and examinations, do not bear out any notion of in- 
feriority. Was not Miss Fawcett placed above the Senior 
Wrangler? And mathematics, I take it, is not exactly the 
subject one would have expected a woman to shine in. Then 
there have been Senior Classics, and all sorts of distinctions 
in every branch of learning. 

Which reminds me that Oxford and Cambridge, although 
they admit women to the examinations, and record the place 
they have won, do not permit them to take the degrees that 
fall to the share of a man passing the same examinations. 
What possible excuse can there be for such a line of conduct 
as that? I suppose it is traceable to the old-fashioned preju- 
dice against the higher education of women which still lingers 
in quarters where something better might have been expected. 
Anyhow, it is good to know that London and some of the 
younger Universities place their women students on the same 
footing as men in all respects. 

Nor is it only the Universities and other higher educa- 
tional institutions that are concerned. Parents are equally 
interested. At present, it is the exception to find parents who 
deem it as much their duty to give their girls the very best 
available education precisely as they do their boys. Most 
people appear to regard a quite inferior standard as quite 
good enough for their daughters. Even if facilities were the 
same, many would not take advantage of them. I suppose it 



re MY LIFE AND DANCING 

is a case of action and reaction. The lesser facilities proba- 
bly render many parents indifferent; the indifference of many 
parents in turn checks progress, and retards movement in the 
forward direction. 

Perhaps I had better say at once that I am sufficiently old 
fashioned to believe that the rightful destiny of every woman 
is to be the wife and mother, to make that inner sanctuary 
known by the sweet name of "home.'' And it is just because 
I believe she cannot be a real wife to her husband, or a real 
mother to her children — in the best and highest sense — unless 
she is intellectually and educationally on a level with them, 
that I am so earnest an advocate of the removal of every ob- 
stacle, whether due to law or custom, that stands in the way 
of woman's education. 

At the same time one must recognise, with some sadness, 
for many reasons, among which the preponderance of the 
female element in the population of most civilised countries is 
one of the foremost, that not to every woman can happy wife- 
hood and motherhood fall. Many women must be their own 
bread winners and stand alone. The avenues of employment 
will be widened by better female education. 

Therefore, the more professions and avocations that are 
opened up for us women the better. Particularly do I think 
women should be doctors. In so many cases they possess an 
intuitive perception of the pains of their own sex, which a 
man doctor cannot possibly be expected to possess, that their 
advice and sympathy — the latter is not to be overlooked as a 
curative element — are invaluable. Yet I must candidly con- 
fess that, when it comes to surgery, I think men are more 
reliable. At any rate, if I had the misfortune to have to 
undergo an operation, I feel that I should experience a 
greater sense of security with a male operator. I may be 
wrong, for such ideas are matters of feeling rather than of 
thought. 

I am less certain as to whether it is desirable the legal 
profession should be thrown open to members of my sex. 
I am not doubting their intellectual qualifications, or that 
they could master the subject. The existence of lady bar- 
risters in France disposes of any query on that score. But 
temperament counts as well as intellect. We women are 
swayed still by our emotions to a greater extent than men; 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 79 

and while, now and then, this might benefit a client, on the 
whole I am inclined to the view that there would be an ab- 
sence of that dispassionate weighing of pros and cons, that 
impersonal consideration of all that told against a client as 
well as in his favour, without which a legal adviser will proba- 
bly do more harm than good. 

Moreover, I take it that if women were admitted to the 
Bar, they could not be debarred from the Bench. Now, if 
the natural inclination of my sex to take a side and brush 
aside objections would prove disadvantageous in the practice 
of advocacy, in the case of a Judge it would be absolutely 
fatal. Careful weighing of evidence, exhaustive analysis free 
from emotional bias, is antagonistic to our instincts. Of 
course, I am speaking in general terms. Just as there are 
feminine men, there are masculine women; there is something 
feminine in every man, something masculine in every woman. 
But one cannot legislate for exceptions; and, broadly stated, 
I believe the facts are as I have ventured to put them. 

I candidly admit that the dirferences upon which I have in- 
sisted may be due to long generations of training and envir- 
onment. It may well be that, in years to come, when the 
improved education of women has become more general, 
when the greater freedom of their mode of life, with the ac- 
companying broadening of mental outlook, has wrought 
changes, these differences may be modified. When that time 
comes, the whole aspect of the problem may be altered. But 
to-day, with woman's nature what it is, I think the legal pro- 
fession unsuited to my sex. 

For precisely the same reason, I fear that I must rank my- 
self among those who do not believe it desirable that women 
should exercise the franchise. Man has been defined as a 
political animal. Woman is not. The ordinary working 
man, when his day's work is done, will discuss politics with 
his fellows, will read political articles in his newspaper. His 
wife will chat over dress, or housekeeping, or gossip about 
her neighbours. If she reads, it will probably be some serial 
story in a newspaper, dealing mostly with love. It is an open 
secret that the adoption of the feuilleton of late years in so 
many English newspapers is primarily designed to furnish 
reading for the female members of the family. I don't see 
how statistics are to be got on this topic, but I feel confident 



80 MY LIFE AND DANCIXG 

that if they were procurable they would show that the ma- 
jority of the men who take any particular newspaper do not 
read the serial story, while the majority of the women do. 

At bottom this points to a genuine sex difference. Whether 
it is Nature or education that is responsible need not concern 
us now, although it may affect the future. The main thing 
is that it exists, and it is this: Men care more for principles, 
women for persons. 

You may say this is generalising. It is; but I think it is a 
generalisation whose accuracy will be conceded. The per- 
sonal characteristics of a candidate would undoubtedly weigh 
unduly with women. His looks, his manner, his bearing, 
would interest them far more than his views. I have, in the 
course of my life and in the practice of my profession, met 
women of many countries and many classes, and my experi- 
ence tends to confirm me in the view that, broadly speaking, 
women care little or nothing for abstract questions. Their 
thoughts and their conversation are directed to persons. 

That is why they are so unsuited to politics, in my opinion. 
I shall be extremely sorry if my frankness offends anyone, 
but I feel bound to utter my genuine thoughts, even if in so 
doing I fail to please many of my own sex, for whose intel- 
lect, character, and achievements I have the highest respect, 
the profoundest admiration. Woman should be the refining, 
the inspiring, the idealising element of humanity. In becom- 
ing a good politician she would cease to be that. 

Needless to add, perhaps, that even if I thought the fran- 
chise for women desirable, I do not view the tactics adopted 
by some of its advocates with approval. It seems to me 
they are calculated to damage rather than to further the 
cause; above all, to depart from that refining ideal which 
woman should maintain. To have set up a rival platform to 
Mr. Winston Churchill, for instance; to have made a speech 
so much more interesting than his, that it would have de- 
pleted his audience and left him talking to empty benches, 
would have been legitimate and a handsome way of oppos- 
ing him. To clang a bell so that he could not be heard is 
mere rowdyism, and unworthy. 

In conclusion, I should like to say that men have in the 
past, step by step, removed many of the obstacles that have 
stood in the way of woman's freedom. Our condition has 



AIY LIFE AND DANCING 81 

changed immeasureably for the better, as witness the educa- 
tional question on which my heart is set. Much yet remains 
to be done, and men will do it. For, after all, no man is free 
from the influence of some woman. The careers of the great- 
est men prove it. As wives, mothers, sisters, daughters, they 
more or less mould husbands, sons, brothers, and fathers. 
For children do modify parents, as parents do children. The 
pity is that in so many instances that influence has not been 
of the right kind. The general raising of the standard of 
women's education should remedy that; and, with woman 
swaying man to nobler and loftier ideals, the world will 
move to higher things, and humanity progress nearer 
divinity. 



CHAPTER XI. 



LONDON. 



I cannot say that my first impression of the city was the 
happiest of any I had ever had, although I was coming into 
an undiscovered country of which I had dreamed, and which 
I longed to conquer. 

The crossing of the Channel was almost more than I could 
bear. At no time on the great ocean had I ever suffered as 
I did then! And then, too, the day was Sunday, and it was 
so wet, for the rain was coming down in torrents. 

As we drove from the station, I saw looming up against 
the dark sky a huge building — Buckingham Palace — "where 
the King lives,'' I whispered, and I felt a thrill as if I were 
at home, for I certainly had one friend in this great city of 
rain and darkness. 

When I was at the High School in California I first read 
that beautiful poem beginning, "Oh, to be in England now 
that April's there!" and ever since, when studying music 
under Ferruccio Busoni, or when wandering in the picture 
galleries and churches of Italy, I have had the same aspira- 
tions as Browning. And here am I in England — already 
seven whole months — April has come and gone, and still I 
wonder what I think of it. 

The stillness in London as compared to other big cities is 
very restful. You must not think that I mean by this that 
London is slow and sleepy — quite the reverse. Berlin is up 
all n-ght; in Vienna the cafes have not shut their doors for 
years; in New York the crowds of people all seem to be 
making unnecessary noise. As compared with these, London 
is alive, a delightful fair, full of merry-go-rounds without the 
steam organ. But can anyone tell me why the streets are 
made as smooth as the floors of ball-rooms for the horses, 
and every stone in your pavements in the West End is con- 
structed like a small basin? 

And the people! It would be against my nature not to 
love the fine, gallant well-dressed straight-forward English- 



84 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

man — but the women I may be supposed to look on with a 
critical, cat-like eye. To me they are the most wonderful 
feature of lovely London. Never have I seen so many ex- 
cept in San Francisco — as adorn the streets of the West 
End, a huge aviary, all in brilliant plumage and all young, 
looking for all the world like a pretty chorus, with bright 
eyes, rosebud mouths, and pink complexions set in a frame 
of fluffy hair. Mothers and daughters of the great, and the 
work girls — non Angli, sed Angeli — *'Not Angles, but An- 
gels," as the Roman Emperor said — they are all the same. 

Nowhere in the world does a woman of birth carry herself 
so distinctively as in England. 

And your Sundays. I have seen your Day of Rest sneered 
at; I have heard the Continental Sunday lauded. I have lived 
longed enough on the Continent, however, to see this one day 
cruelly abused, and appreciate deeply the quiet and peace of 
an English Sunday. I have not seen much of England yet. 
I was too ill on coming and was as white as your chalk cliffs, 
and, therefore, could hardly appreciate my run through the 
Garden of England. I must go again to see the hop poles 
tied up with green ribbons, and your blossomed pear tree in 
the hedge lean to the field and scatter on the clover, blossoms 
and dewdrops, but I have seen enough to love your peaceful 
Sunday and its evening bells. 

When I came to London I was known only to a few Lon- 
doners who perhaps had seen me on the Continent, or heard 
of me when I danced before His Majesty at Marienbad. I 
felt as though I were about to turn a sharp corner in m.y 
career, one which meant so much to me — to my art and to 
its future. Would I be received, would my efforts meet with 
approval — English approval? If I live to be the age of Me- 
thuselah, I shall never forget my first performance on March 
6th, 1908, at the Palace Theatre. Never before had I been so 
tempted to gaze for one satisfying moment at my audience. 
It meant so much for the Press to speak for my art, born 
of my great passionate love for the beautiful: but perhaps it 
was nervousness, perhaps the silent house sitting in darkness, 
at any rate I couldn't tell whether there were twenty people 
or two hundred there. Then, in a desire to forget, I placed 
my mind on my work and slipping from behind the softly 
hanging curtains which formed my background, danced my 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 85 

way into the heart of London. I was so happy! And now 
the golden gates of all the cities of the earth are open to me. 
I say this in very humble and in deep gratitude, and because 
I owe it to you dear Londoners, I would be unworthy if J 
did not make acknowledgment. 

To Mr. Alfred Butt, Managing Director of the Palace, I 
owe the greatest debt of thanks, for his full realisation of the 
value of a judicious management of an artiste, with an Art 
so foreign to anything yet brought to the notice of the 
English public, has proven of infinite value to me, and I 
shall ever be grateful and deeply indebted to him. 

Speaking of Mr. Butt, I may as well tell you how I once 
hurt his feelings almost beyond redemption. When I called 
at the Palace on the day after my arrival at twelve o'clock — 
with sack and pack as the Germans say — I asked of Blake, 
the stage door keeper, to be shown to Mr. Butt, the Manag- 
ing Director. Blake seemed to think I wanted a lot. 

"Mr. Butt is engaged. Miss. Can't see him." 

"So," I thought, "a pretty time of day if I'm to wait in 
the hall way till dear knows when," so I conceived the idea 
of insisting upon my card being sent up. A telephone mes- 
sage — 

"Go up to the office. Miss; I'll take you up in the lift. Mr. 
Butt'll see you soon." 

I got as far as the top and a clatter of typewriting machines 
told me I was nearing busy offices. Again — 

"You'll have to wait a while. Miss." So down I sat on a 
bench in the hall and waited — waited. Suddenly a door opened 
— a voice called "Miss Allan?" I jumped; I had fallen into a 
reverie and was away off in Fairyland! When I entered, a 
tall, slight, fair-haired young man stood before me, I gazed 
a few seconds, perplexed — looked about me as he made no 
move to go and call Mr. Butt to see if I had perhaps overlooked 
the Director! 

"Will you kindly call Mr. Butt?" I remarked. 

"Who?" 

"Mr. Butt.'' His clear blue eyes twinkled and his whole 
face lighted up with a smile so wicked that I felt for one 
moment horribly annoyed. How dare this man act in such 
a manner? 

Suddenly I felt I was making a mistake. This man could 



86 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

be none other than Mr. Butt himself! I gasped out my sus- 
picion, and yes — it was true. I had thought him one of his 
clerks. Can you image his amusement? But how could I 
know he would be so young? He did forgive me, and soon 
too, and now I count him as my true friend; and the Palace 
Theatre in which I have spent many happy months, and won 
the sympathetic applause of thousands, my London home! 
* * Ht * * 

England's queen. 

I used to think when I was a student that if I could dance 
before and receive the gracious applause of the King and 
Queen, I should be the happiest girl in the world, and now 
that it has really happened, I think sometimes it must all be 
a dream. 

How plainly it all comes back to me! How clearly I seem 
to hear Her Majesty's voice as taking hold of my hand she 
said: — 

"How beautiful your dancing is. It has given me real 
delight." 

It all happened one night after my usual appearance at 
the theatre. It was after a dinner given in honour of Their 
Majesties by the Earl and Countess of Dudley. 

The beautiful ball-room, in its white and gold splendour, 
was radiant with beautiful women and sparkling gems. One 
end had been reserved for me, and with a background of 
masses of Smilax and La France roses, I felt as though I 
had been transported to Fairyland! I looked with quivering 
heart and tears in my eyes at all the wondrous beauty of my 
surroundings, and calling upon the fairies to support and 
guide me — danced as I have never danced before! When I 
had finished I saw the King and Queen applauding — I grew 
dizzy with joy, and I could have kissed the hem of her gar- 
ment. When Lady Dudley came to me with a message that 
the Queen would receive me, London held at that moment nc> 
happier girl — England's Queen, ever young, ever charitable, 
had recognised my efforts to give something beautiful to the 
world, and I was now to hear it from her own dear lips. T 
have heard it and rejoice' 



CHAPTER XIL 

SALOME. 

I. — The Dance of Salome. 

II. — The Vision of Salome. 

I am glad that I have been asked to write this little book 
for the reason, if for none other, that it gives me an oppor- 
tunity to explain what is the meaning that I wish to convey- 
by my dance, "The Vision of Salome," a meaning that has been 
dimly guessed by some, hinted at by others, and perhaps more 
widely misunderstood by what in Jacobean times were called 
"the groundlings" than any dance in my collection . 

I. — This is the Dance of Salome. 

I want you to see, as I can, in imagination or memory, those 
apartments in the palace of Herod Antipas, by the will of his 
father, Herod the Great, the late Procurator of Judaea, Tetrarch 
of Galilee and Perea, set apart especially for the use of the 
Princess Salome, daughter of Herodias and grand-daughter of 
the late Procurator. You see the sombre splendour of those 
pillared halls, strewn with rare draperies and Tyrian purple — 
the sumptuous couches to the decoration of which all Arabia 
had contributed her embroideries. Amid them the Princess 
Salome, hardly more than a child^ — fourteen I take her to have 
been — surrounded by the Galilean maidens who were her at- 
tendants, her playmates, and her slaves. Little she recked that 
these painted and embroidered stuffs were part of the marriage 
portion of her aunt, the daughter of Aretas, King and Lord 
of Arabia-Petraea, whom her uncle, the Tetrarch, has put 
away from his that he might marry her mother, Herodias. I 
want 3^ou to try and realise what her life must have been, clois- 
tered at the dawn of womanhood in the luxurious seclusion of an 
Oriental Princess. Did any thought of her father, Philip, 
haunt her mind? How long was it since she had known what 
it was to be petted by the father to whom she had been but 
an exquisite plaything? The memory of childhood is, thank 
Heaven, short for such things, and the luxury of her uncle's 
house had become part of her life, part of herself. 



88 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

Only amid the soft glamour of her days had one harsh per- 
plexing note jarred upon the harmony of her existence. Hardly 
had she become accustomed to her new surroundings, hardly 
become reconciled to calling Herod Antipas by the dearer name 
of 'father," when she witnessed one never-to-be-forgotttn day, 
the fury of her mother, the impotent rage that made her at- 
tendants, both male and female, cower before her — and in 
her own apartments the girls whispered, half fearful of being 
overheard and of being whipped — that this new luxury that 
surrounded her, nay, her very presence in the palace itself 
had been denounced, that the vengeance of Almighty God had 
been invoked upon her mother by the voice of ''one crying in 
the wilderness ;" that the new marriage of her step-father had 
been lashed with the denunciations of the Baptist John — John, 
who had called with clarion voice the people of the land to 
the consecrating waters of the river Jordan. Can you not 
hear the frightened speculations of the little maidens behind 
the curtains of their hanging garden upon the palace roof? 

The Princess Salome sat surrounded by the maidens, their 
pastimes interrupted now and again by a burst of sound from 
the great halls of the palace far below them. It was the birth- 
day of the all-powerful Tetrarch, and Herod "made a supper 
to his lords, high captains, and chief estates of Galilee." 

Suddenly the gong that hung at the entrance to her private 
abode reverberates with a great clang! A Nubian slave crouches 
before her — ^^bidden to speak he delivers himself of the message 
that half terrifies and half enchants her. Remember, she was 
only a child. She must tire herself in the jewelled robes and 
delicate fabrics which are hers of right as a Princess of the 
Royal house, and repair to the great hall, where she shall dance 
before the "lords, high captains and chief estates of Galilee." 
This gift has come down to her, brought by them from Egypt, 
from the earliest settlers of the land whom she claims as her 
ancestors. It has been her pride, her mother's delight, the 
pleasure of her dead father in days gone by, and now of the great 
Tetrarch himself. Pie has spoken to his guests of the Egyp- 
tian wizardries of her dance, she must not shame his words. To 
hear is to obey. 

The rude, plaintive, cadences of the native musicians restore 
her faltering confidence as she springs into the great hall ; 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 89 

blind to the circle of inflamed eyes that devour her youthful 
beauty, she sees only Herod himself and at his side his sister- 
in-law and wife — Herodias, her mother. For them and for 
them alone she weaves her most ingenious witcheries of dance. 
The hall grows filled with silence, a spell has come over the 
semi-barbarians assembled to do honour to the festival of 
the Tetrarch, and it has fallen most heavily upon the Tetrarch 
himself. 

The music dies away in a wail of passion. The Httle figure 
lies panting in obeisance before the throne. And the great 
ruler leaning forward speaks with dull eyes and parched 
tongue : — 

"Ask of me whatsoever thou wilt and I will give it thee!" 

She raises her hand above her bowed head in deprecation 
of so great a promise. 

"Whatsoever thou wilt ask of me," he pants, "I swear that 
I will give it thee, unto the half of my kingdom." 

Then dazed, frightened by she knows not what, that flames 
suddenly from the eyes of Herod, she takes refuge in her 
mother's bosom. 

"What shall I ask" she whispers. 

And on the instant her mother replies — personal hate over- 
coming all other feeHngs or ambitions — "The head of John 
the Baptist." 

Once more she bends, Royal Princess though she be, before 
the throne of Herod. 

"I will that thou give me, by and by in a charger, the head 
of John the Baptist." 

"How can we tell what happened then in more pregnant words 
than those of the Evangelist Mark? 

"And the king was exceeding sorry, yet for his oath's sake 
and for their sakes which sat with him he would not reject 
her. 

"And immediately the king sent an executioner and com- 
manded his head to be brought; and he went and beheaded him 
in prison. 

"And brought his head in a charger and gave it to the dam- 
sel, and the damsel gave it to her mother." 

Think of the terror of that moment to the child. She had 
heard of John as of a great good man who preached purity and 



90 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

higher things than she had ever known in the debasing luxuries 
of the court. Buoyed up by the excitement of her triumph 
she had put the ghastly trophy of her skill into the hands of 
her mother. 

Then she had fled, on naked, horror-stricken feet, back to the 
terrace-garden of her apartments. With a terrified gesture 
the attendants have been dismissed. She stands panting, aghast, 
her hands pressed to her young breasts, she raises them and, 
bowing her head to meet them, sees upon her naked flesh, upon 
the hands that seek her smarting eyes, the purple, sticky stain 
that she has not been able to avoid — it is the blood of the 
Baptist John. 

The sight turns her for a moment to stone. Then it brings 
the whole ghastly scene back, as in a vision. 

11. — This is my Vision of Salome. 

Drawn by an irresistible force Salome in a dream descends 
the marble steps leading from the bronze doors that she has 
just flung to behind her frightened attendants. The same stone 
obelisk backed by the inky darkness of the Cyprus trees shut out 
the silver rays of the moon and save for the flickering red 
light of the cresset flames that the slaves have lit, all is mystic 
darkness, and to Salome's overwrought brain all is fantastic, 
vague. 

She lives again the awful moments of joy and of horror which 
she has just passed through. Alone in the gloom the poor 
child's fancy assumes dominion over her. 

Slowly to the strains of the distant music, reminiscently she 
raises her willowy arms. The movement thrills her whole 
slender frame and she glides as if in a dream. A voice whis- 
pers "You duty — ^your duty ! Does not the child owe obe- 
dience to its mother?" On, on — wilder and more reckless than 
ever before ! She sees once more the greedy glittering eyes 
of her stepfather — she hears again the whispered praises and 
encouraging words of her mother, and Salome, child that she 
is, realises a power within her and exults. She sees again 
her triumph approach, her swaying limbs are in readiness to 
give way when suddenly from out of the sombre death-still hall 
the wail of muffled distress — and a pale sublime face with its 
mass of long black hair arises before her — the head of John 
the Baptist ! There is a sudden crash. She is horror stricken ! 



MY LIFE AND DANCING 91 

Suddenly a wild desire takes possession of her. Why, ah ! why, 
.should her mother have longed for this man's end? Salome 
feels a strange longing compelling her once more to hold in her 
hands this awful reward of her obedience and slowly, very 
slowly, and with ecstasy mingled with dread, she seems to take 
up and to lay the vision of her prize on the floor before her. 
Ever}^ fibre of her youthful body is quivering; a sensation hith- 
erto utterly unknown to her is awakened and her soul longs for 
comfort. Hark ! a sound of approaching feet. Frightened 
lest her treasure be taken from her before she has solved its 
mystery she stands guard over it, and wdien the footsteps die 
away in the distant halls her relief knows no limit ! In the 
mad whirl of childish joy she is drawn again to dance — dance 
around this strange silent presence. Soon exhaustion breaks 
the spell. Salome, Princess of Galilee, lies prone on the cold 
grey marble. 

The awakening is that of her childish heart. The realisa- 
tion of a superior power has so taken possession of her that sue 
is spurred on to sacrifice everything even unto herself to con- 
quer. Reared in luxury her every wish granted since her days 
began — was it to be thought possible she would subject herself 
to the will of another, a stronger and an intangible force at 
that, without a fierce conflict? 

What passes in those few moments through this excited, half- 
terror-striken, half-stubborn brain makes of little Salome a 



woman 



Instead of wanting now to conquer she wants to be conquered, 
wants the spiritual guidance of the man whose wraith is before 
her; but it remains silent! No word of comfort, not even a 
sign ! Crazed by the rigid stillness, Salome, seeking an under- 
standing, and knowing not how to obtain it, presses her warm 
vibrating lips to the cold lifeless ones of the Baptist ! In this 
instant the curtain of darkness that had enveloped her soul 
falls, the strange grandeur of a power higher than Salome has 
ever dreamed of beholding becomes visible to her and her an- 
guish becomes vibrant. 

She begs and prays for mercy of the stern head — alas, with- 
out response ! Salome flees in despair, and though her pride, 
her princely rank confront her, and she halts, it is but for a 
moment. The Revelation of Something far greater still breaks 



92 MY LIFE AND DANCING 

upon her, and stretching out her trembling arms turns her soul 
rejoicing towards Salvation. It is gone! Where, oh, where t 
A sudden wild grief overmasters her, and the fair young Prin- 
cess, bereft of all her pride, her childish gaiety, and her woman- 
ly desire, falls, her hands grasping high above her for her lost 
redemption, a quivering huddled mass. It is the atonement of 
her mother^s awful sin ! 

Many the silent centuries that have passed since this woeful 
happening. But throughout the peoples whose souls have 
awakened to the, teaching of the Divine Nazarene, the anguish 
of this tale finds echo in human hearts, and night winds breath- 
ing over Syrian deserts whisper to the pitying stars the story 
»f Salome. 

The End. 



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